


Six Paramitas

by shell



Series: Four Truths [2]
Category: Hard Core Logo, Homicide: Life on the Street
Genre: Buddhism, Crossover, M/M, Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2003-10-10
Updated: 2003-10-10
Packaged: 2017-10-02 05:34:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 39,514
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3110
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shell/pseuds/shell
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>House hunting, dealing with the past, and practice.  Contains descriptions of violence and discussion of substance abuse.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Six Paramitas

**Author's Note:**

> Quotes are from _The Heart of the Buddha's Teaching: Transforming Suffering into Peace, Joy, and Liberation_ and _The Path of Emancipation_ by Thich Nhat Hanh, and _The Places that Scare You: A Guide to Fearlessness in Difficult Times_ by Pema Chodron.
> 
> The people who have read and commented on one version or another of this include: Ardent, Bast, byob_kenobi, Cathexys, Dine, Panisdead, Starfish, and Twistedchick. Big thanks to JA for some specific stuff on counseling.
> 
> Soundtrack: The Tragically Hip

_There are six traditional activities in which the bodhisattva trains, six ways of compassionate living. Traditionally these are called the six paramitas, a Sanskrit word meaning "gone to the other shore." —Pema Chodron_

_The Chinese character used for paramita means "crossing over to the other shore," which is the shore of peace, non-fear, and liberation. The Buddha said, "Don't just hope for the other shore to come to you. If you want to cross over . . . you have to make an effort." This effort is the practice of the Six Paramitas. —Thich Nhat Hanh_

_The Six Paramitas:_

_dana (giving, offering, generosity)  
shila (the Five Mindfulness Trainings, also known as the Five Precepts)  
kshanti (forbearance, patience, inclusiveness; the capacity to receive, bear, and transform pain)  
virya (diligence, energy, perseverance)  
dhyana (meditation)   
prajna (wisdom, insight, understanding)_

**I. Dana (Generosity)**

_The greatest gift we can offer anyone is our true presence. —Thich Nhat Hanh_

It's much harder leaving Vancouver Island than I thought it would be. It's more difficult than all the other times I've left or he's left, and that doesn't make sense; it should be easier. I'm going to see him in a week, when he comes back to Portland, and we're going to look for a house together. In a couple months, if everything works out, I'll see him every day—well, every day he's not on tour, or down in LA recording. You'd think it would be easier. But it's not.

I guess he's feeling the same way, because as I'm about to get in my jeep, he puts his hand on my arm. "Fuck, Tim," he mutters, then puts his hand along my face, staring at me.

I take his hand in mine and bring it to my lips. "Yeah, I know. I don't want to go. It's just a week, though, right?"

He nods. "A week. We can do a week."

I lean in and kiss him. "I love you, Bill." I haven't said it more than once or twice since that night, but I need to say it again, now, before I leave.

His gaze softens. "Yeah, I know," he says, running his thumb over my mouth. He smiles. "Now beat it. I'll see you next week."

I smile and get into the jeep, rolling down the window. "Right, next week. I'll call you when I get in."

"I love you," he says quietly. I nod, start the car, and drive away, although I want nothing more than to stay. It's just a week, I tell myself. I can do a week.

It's a long week.

We talk on the phone at least once or twice a day. There's not much to talk about beyond what kind of house we might want, and neither one of us seems interested in narrowing it down much at this point. We both talk to Karen—I have dinner with her and Casey every night I'm not working at the bar. I think she's a little frustrated by how vague we both are, but she's busy making a list of houses for us to look at.

I go to pick him up at the airport, remembering the last time I did this, only three weeks ago. Life is full of change, I know, but it's still mind-boggling when I think about the last few months.

He walks past security into the open part of the airport, sees me, and walks right into my arms, kissing my cheek, apparently not giving a shit that people are staring. So I try not to give a shit either—after all, I'm not anybody here. I'm not a cop anymore; I'm certainly not a famous musician. I'm just a bartender. And he's wearing the baseball cap again—maybe no one recognizes him.

"Fuck, I've missed you," he murmurs finally, pulling back a little, but keeping one arm around my waist.

"Yeah, I've missed you too. I'm glad you're here."

He smiles. "Come on, let's go."

This time I'm the one who kisses him the minute we get into the car, leaning past the gear shift, cupping the back of his head, pulling him towards me. We only kiss for a minute or two, but it's more than enough to get me hard, to make both of us sigh when we break it off. I run my fingers through his hair one more time.

"I really missed you," I say again, starting the jeep.

"Yeah," he answers, resting his hand on my thigh. "I know."

We make pretty good time back to the apartment, despite the traffic and some rain. It takes forever to get through the doors and up the stairs and into the apartment, but then we're finally there. We barely make it through the door before Bill's pushing me against the wall, one long arm slamming the door shut behind us. I lean back, wrapping my arms around him, and he runs his hand along my face, then down my neck, to my chest, kissing me intently, every inch of his body focused on mine. I break off the kiss just long enough for us to get into the bedroom, and then we're all over each other, pulling off clothing, fondling, licking, nuzzling, an occasional teasing bite. I watch his face as he comes, and that's what takes me over the edge myself, even more than the feel of his hand on me.

I make him dinner, just a little pasta with some red sauce. And then we spend the rest of the evening in bed, as promised. We share the shower, unfortunately a tighter squeeze than the one in Baltimore, before we go off to meet Karen for breakfast. The sky's cleared up, the sun shining, just a hint of fall crispness in the air—it's a beautiful day, and Karen's brimming with enthusiasm.

From the minute we get to the first house, though, Bill acts weird. The houses are nice, in good neighborhoods, but apparently they're not what he's interested in. He's dismissive, moving through quickly, shaking his head, acting more and more annoyed. Finally, after lunch, after another three quick rejects, he says something.

"Listen, Karen, I appreciate what you're showing us here, and I know we weren't really clear on what we wanted, but I don't think this is it." He looks at me apologetically. "I don't want to live in the fucking suburbs, Tim. I want something with some character to it, you know? These houses all look alike. And we need some privacy, some land, maybe a fence, keep out the stalkers."

"Stalkers?" I ask, going into alert before I even realize it, then consciously trying to relax.

He shrugs. "Now and again, yeah. It's no big deal, usually—the house in California has a gate, and so far no one's made it up to Port Alberni—but I wouldn't want these nice American families worrying about crazies coming after their new neighbors."

"I understand," Karen says smoothly, while I continue to stare at Bill. "As a matter of fact, I have a couple more places for us to check out that might be more what you're looking for. Tomorrow we'll head out to Lake Oswego, Clackamas, that area. You two are coming over for dinner tonight, right?"

"Yeah, we are," I answer. "We'll be there at 6:30."

"Great. I'll see you then. You know how to get back, Tim?"

"Yeah, no problem." We get into the jeep and head back towards the apartment.

After a few minutes of silence, Bill says, "What the fuck is bothering you?"

I glance at him. "What? Nothing. I'm fine." I can feel his gaze boring into me, so I give it up. "Well, okay, the thing is—stalkers? Seriously?"

"One or two over the years, yeah. Like I said, it's no big deal."

"Right, right, no big deal. That's why you never bothered to mention it. Jesus, Bill." I don't know why I'm surprised. He's famous. He's rich, and he's famous. He's a rock star, for god's sake. Of course he has stalkers. And now he's involved with me, another man, and apparently has no intention of being anything but open about it.

"Yeah, that's why I never mentioned it—fuck, Tim, why does this bother you so much?"

"Because I've seen what people can do!" I exclaim, then start thinking about our options. "I don't know why it never occurred to me—I don't have my gun anymore, but I could easily qualify for a permit—"

"What?"

I don't know why he sounds so shocked. "In case someone tries to break in, I should have a gun," I answer reasonably, wondering why Alan Costello didn't carry one, wondering if he'd still be alive if he had. "As a former police officer, I wouldn't have any problems getting a concealed carry permit."

"Don't do that for me," he says angrily. "You think you want to have a gun in the house, I don't suppose I can stop you, but don't use me to justify it."

"Okay, fine, calm down," I say, trying to mollify him. "I didn't realize you felt that strongly about it. You don't want a gun in the house, we won't have one. But we'd better have a good security system."

"Fine," he says. "You're in charge of security. Whatever kind of system you think is best, we'll have. But no guns."

"No guns," I agree, secretly relieved. I haven't touched one since I turned in my Glock, and maybe that's for the best, despite the clarity I used to feel on the shooting range. I suppress a shudder, remembering. I never even went back after Larry Moss, thankful I'd qualified again just a week before the Roshi Felder murder. I thought briefly about carrying an unloaded weapon, but I couldn't take the risk that anyone else would get hurt.

"What is it now?" Bill asks, pulling me out of my reverie.

I shake my head. "Nothing. Sorry."

"Nothing, right," he says, giving me a look.

"No, really, Bill—just thinking about some shit from when I was a cop. It's not important."

"If you say so," he says. He lets it go, for now, and I briefly wonder if moving in with him is the best idea. I don't know how I'm going to be able to keep it from him when we're together every day—it's hard enough already. I love him; I want to tell him everything. But I can't tell him, not about Ryland, much as I want to. Telling him would only cause problems; him leaving me would probably be the least of it.

So I talk to him about what kind of furniture he'll be moving up here, about what of mine we'll be able to use. It passes the time until we get back to the apartment, after which we do something a lot more pleasant. Jesus, I didn't think it was possible, but sex with him just keeps getting better—knowing how I feel about him, knowing he feels the same way, that it's a long-term thing, makes it even more intense.

That evening, we eat dinner with Karen and Casey, and I realize that my frequent meals with them, with my family, will include him from now on. My sister and my niece greet us with hugs and kisses; Karen says she's got some extra brownies for us to take home, and I think, this is going to happen again and again. The two of us are going to come to dinner here, and they're going to come to our house, once we find one—they haven't come to my apartment very often, since there's not much room, but that's sure to change.

The reality of it hits me. I've never lived with someone, never even had a roommate after college, beyond the few days Brodie stayed with me, which were a complete disaster. I'm not used to sharing my space. Sure, the two weeks in BC were great, and having Bill here every morning and every night is incredible, but I wonder how I'll handle it day after day, week after week. And Bill, he's lived on his own since he left Joe the first time—this isn't going to be easy for him, either.

Then I look at him, sitting on Karen's sofa, talking about Justin Timberlake with Casey. He glances up and meets my eyes with a smile. I smile back, and nothing else seems important.

I have a nightmare that night, the first since that night in Port Alberni. It's about Ryland. Bill wakes up and asks me what it was. I tell him I can't remember. He kisses me, then fucks me, and I don't dream again that night.

The next day we look at houses that are considerably bigger and more expensive. The day before, the average price was about $500,000. The cheapest one in this group is $1.2 million. I'm the one that's weird today, although I'm not sure either one of them notices.

The last house we see has it all—hardwood floors, wood exterior, 20 acres, wonderful views. It's beautiful. It's also enormous, over 6000 square feet. The sofa in the living room probably cost more than my jeep.

"Now, this is more like it," Bill says. "And it's already got a great security system."

Karen smiles. "I thought you'd like it."

"Isn't it a little big?" I ask cautiously.

"So it's big, so what? Come on, let's go check out the master bedroom and talk about it. Karen, we'll be back."

He drags me after him. The master bedroom is bigger than my apartment in Baltimore. A lot bigger.

"Nice, huh?" he says, gesturing.

"Bill," I say urgently. "You do realize this house costs four million dollars?"

He looks at me, smirking a little. "Is that all? Fuck, money sure goes a lot further here than it does in LA. Of course, a house like this up in BC would be half that, and it'd be in Canadian money, so I guess it's all relative."

I stare at him.

"Don't worry about it, Tim—I've got the money, you know that. I'll probably get a couple million for the LA house, anyway."

I stare at him some more, my stomach in knots.

"Don't you think it's too big for what we need?" I ask finally. "It's got five bedrooms, Bill." And six and a half bathrooms, and two ovens, and an industrial sized refrigerator.

He looks at me and finally notices my discomfort. "Hey, I'm not sure I like it that much, anyway," he says, shrugging, giving my shoulder a squeeze. "It's got a fucking gazebo, for fuck's sake—what's up with that? Come on, it's been a long day—what do you say we get some take out and eat it in bed?"

"Sure, sure," I answer, distracted, following him back out to the living room.

"I think we'll take a pass on this one, at least for now," Bill tells my sister. "I'm not sure your brother's ready for this kind of lifestyle."

"That's not buddies," I mutter, but the remark stings.

"No problem," Karen answers, looking at me. "Hey, can I talk to Teej a minute before you take him off to ravish him?"

"Sure," he says, winking, "but it's his turn to ravish me tonight, just so you know." He grins at me, and I can't help smiling back. "I'll meet you at the car."

"What is it?" I ask Karen. She punches my shoulder.

"Don't screw this up, Teej."

"What are you talking about?"

"Don't let the fact that he's loaded mess with you. He loves you, you love him, end of story. If he wants to buy a four million dollar house for the two of you, why not just go with it?"

"You sure this isn't just about your commission?" I ask.

She punches me again, harder. "Ow!" I complain, but she ignores me.

"To quote you and Bill," she says sternly, "that was not buddies. I just want you to be happy, bro."

"I know that, sis."

"Do you?"

"Yeah, I do."

She looks at me hard, then nods. "Okay then. I've got a couple more listings for you to look at tomorrow, including one that just came on the market that sounds perfect. You think you can manage an open mind?"

"Sure, sure. Of course I can."

"Good. Go on, he's waiting for you. Jesus, Teej, do you have any idea how lucky you are?"

I kiss her cheek. "I do, Karen, believe me."

"You'd better," she grumbles, punching me again, relatively gently, then tells me to get out of there.

I get into the jeep and start it, feeling very unsure of myself. Bill keeps looking at me throughout the drive back to my apartment, but doesn't say much other than talking about the hockey games that are coming up, asking if I want to go up to Vancouver for a Canucks game.

"You know, I've never been to a hockey game," I tell him.

"Well fuck that—we're definitely going then," he says. "Forget basketball, Tim—hockey is the best, and the Canucks rule." He watches me for a few seconds, then adds, "of course, we can go to some Trailblazers games, too. We could get season tickets. When's your birthday, anyway?"

"In May, the 31st," I answer, startled by the realization that we've been seeing each other for over six months, not even counting Baltimore, and there is still so much we don't know. "When's yours?"

"Next month, the 12th. I'll be 41, if you can fucking believe it."

"So I'm six months older than you," I say. "We'll have to celebrate—where?"

"You could come down to LA," he offers. "Since you haven't been yet, and I'm not going to be there much longer. Shit, I could get tickets for the Kings—they're not the Canucks, but they'd do in a pinch."

"Sure, that sounds good," I say, wishing he hadn't brought up LA. "How big is your house?" I ask before I can stop myself.

"Not too big. About 3500 square feet, pretty small for the whole Malibu scene, but it's got a good view."

I have to ask, have to know. "And how much did it cost?"

"Uhhh, I paid, uh, 950 I think, but I put some money into it—the broker's asking 2 million."

"2 million dollars. That's what your house is worth?"

"From what I understand, yeah," he says, a little sharply. "And the house in BC is worth about 550,000, Canadian, all right? But, like I said, it'd cost a lot more in this market here."

I pull into the parking lot of the apartment complex, very conscious that it was built 20 years ago, that I have outside parking, that my jeep is three years old and just recently paid off.

We walk up the stairs, go past the main door, and up more stairs to my apartment. I notice the carpet is coming loose along the wall as I unlock the door. Bill follows me inside, heading straight for the sofa, looking through the fast food menus I have in the drawer of the end-table.

"What do you feel like having tonight?" he asks. "Pizza sound good?"

"You know, you don't have to stay here," I say, looking at the off-white walls. "If you'd rather be in a hotel—"

"What the fuck are you talking about? Why would I want to be in a hotel?"

"No, see, I could come stay with you there. If you wanted."

"Why would I want that?" he repeats. "You're not making sense here."

"I know this isn't exactly what you're used to," I say, gesturing at the walls, the dingy carpet, the cramped space. "Shit, it wasn't much, but at least my apartment in Baltimore had some character."

"I don't give a shit about that, freak. This is where you are, so this is where I am."

"But the thing is, you do give a shit about it. You said so yesterday. And if today was any indication, you want a hell of a lot more than I knew you did."

"Is this about that house?"

"Maybe. Yeah, I guess it is."

"What the fuck is wrong with wanting to live in a nice house, Tim? I told you, I can afford it—"

"Exactly how much money do you have, Bill?"

He looks at me hard. "So, we're going to have this conversation, are we? Okay, fine. I have a fuckload of money, Tim. I am fucking loaded. I have so much fucking money I don't know what to do with it. Is that what you want to hear?"

"I just want to know—"

"I don't know exactly," he interrupts. "It goes up and down a little, depending on my investments, and the exchange rate—some of it's Canadian investments, some of it's here. And it goes up whenever the royalty checks come in, or the money from the label. Last time I talked to my accountant, which was a couple weeks ago, it was somewhere in the neighborhood of twenty million. That's twenty million American dollars, okay, Detective?"

"Jesus." I sit down heavily on the armchair, the one I've had for fifteen years. Hearing it, out loud, in actual dollars, makes it more real than it's been for all the time I've known him, ever since he threw down a ten dollar bill for a buck fifty cup of coffee and ignored the change.

"You knew I had money, Tim," he says sharply. "Why the sudden freak out?"

I shake my head. "We haven't talked about it. Not at all. About this house we're supposedly buying—I thought we were buying it, Bill." I hear myself, and I know I sound like a petulant child, but I can't stop. "I thought we were buying it together. I guess I knew you could pay a bigger share than I could, but any contribution I can make—if you take everything, all the savings I have, the money I made from selling my share of the bar, it's barely a drop in the bucket if we're looking at a four million dollar house. I mean, jesus, how much is a monthly mortgage payment on a something like that?"

He shrugs. "This probably isn't what you want to hear, but I wasn't intending on making any mortgage payments. I wasn't kidding when I told you I had more money than I knew what to do with. I don't go for collecting cars and planes and shit like that—give me my guitars, and enough money to provide for my kid, and that's about all I need."

"You're planning on just paying cash?"

"No, I was planning on writing a check," he says, obviously trying to lighten the mood, but I'm stuck.

"A check," I murmur. "For four million dollars."

He sits there for a second, looking down. "Did I ever tell you about how I grew up?" he asks suddenly, in one of those lightening changes of subject he's prone to.

"I know you were an only child," I say, "and I figured you didn't have the best childhood. I know you ran away before you graduated from high school. But that's pretty much it."

"Those houses we saw yesterday—I grew up in that kind of place, what my parents and their friends referred to as 'a nice neighborhood'—an exclusive little suburb on the fucking right side of the tracks. My dad was a lawyer, and my mom was a housewife. I was supposed to go to a good university, do the respectable thing, you know?"

I nod. "My mom wanted me to be a doctor. We were pretty middle class, but my cousin, Jim, he lived in that kind of neighborhood, the nice kind, like you're talking about."

"So you know what I mean. Fuck, I was in private school until I met Joe and got expelled."

"Private school, huh?" I say, flashing on Larchmont Prep and MacPhee Broadman, how he'd torched the headmaster's car and still stayed on, never got expelled until he incited a murder.

"It wasn't one of those boarding schools or anything, " he says, "but it was decent. I liked it okay, but Joe hated that I went there. It was his idea to break into the headmaster's office and steal his hockey trophies, and I'm pretty sure he's the one who actually tipped them off so I'd get kicked out." He looks distant for a second, remembering.

"What about Billie?" I ask. "Does she go to private school?"

"Nah," he answers, shaking his head. "The schools are good in her mom and Evan's neighborhood, no need to ship her off somewhere else. Not that the schools were bad where I grew up—it was just important to them, to my parents, the appearance of it, you know? That they could afford to send their pride and joy to private school, where the uniform incidentally did a great job of covering the bruises."

The way he reacted when I told him about my uncle, the way he ran away to be with Joe, and a thousand other little hints have been there, but he's never talked about it before. I knew it, though, knew instinctively it was another secret we had in common.

"Bruises?" I prompt after a few seconds of silence.

He nods.

"Yeah," he says. "See, my friends, they were always jealous, because I had everything a kid could want, you know? But they didn't know that when I got my first guitar, when I was nine, it was right after my dad broke my mom's arm. And that private school, they didn't ask any questions, as long as the money kept coming. They didn't give a shit that my dad was drunk who liked to beat up on his wife and kid. Not that there's anything earthshaking in that—happens all the time." He looks at me, and his gaze softens. "Fuck, worse things happen all the time."

I move over to the sofa and take his hand. "Is that why you ran away with Joe?"

"That, and the music. And that I loved the fucker." He starts playing idly with my fingers. "The first few years, we lived in crappy hotels, bandhouses, or slept in the van. Not exactly what I was used to, but I didn't give a fuck. I was happy, Tim, do you get that?" He looks at me until I nod. "It didn't matter what kind of shithole I was sleeping in, didn't matter that I had to deal with rats, cockroaches, even lice a couple times. It didn't matter that I didn't have shit to my name except my guitar and the ratty clothes on my back. I was happy, for a couple years anyway. It was the Joe and Billy show, onstage and off, and I was fucking happy."

He pauses, looking at our hands, then up at my face again. "I'd never been happy like that before. I didn't think I ever would be again, until I met you, which I know sounds like some stupid fucking romance novel, but it's true."

"It's not stupid," I say softly.

He nods slowly and strokes my cheek. "You're right, it's not. So, the thing is, I don't give a shit where we live. If it's important to you, we'll go strictly 50-50 on the house, just get what we can afford that way. Fuck, if you had some sort of attachment to this stupid apartment, I'd move in here in a fucking heartbeat."

"I don't want to stay here," I say, smiling. "It's too small. I want to live in a house."

"Yeah, okay, good," he responds, smiling back. "I won't lie to you, Tim. I'd prefer to live some place a lot bigger than this apartment, more comfortable than what we could afford on your stupid halfsies plan. But as long as I'm sleeping in the same bed with you every night, I don't give a fuck how big the bedroom is. This is about you and me, not about how many square feet we have." He jabs me in the chest, then points to himself. "You and me, understand?"

I nod. "Yeah. Yeah, I understand."

"I love you, Tim." It's the first time he's said it before I did. I reach out and stroke his cheek, feeling the warm skin beneath the stubble.

"I love you, too," I tell him. "And you're right, it's stupid not to be comfortable. I guess I just don't know how comfortable I'd be in a house that costs millions of dollars. I know it doesn't make much sense—"

He stops me with a finger on my lips. "You and me, Tim. Okay, nothing over a million, how's that sound? And nothing over, say, 4000 square feet?"

I smile. "You know, you're right about something. The thing is, as long as you're sleeping in the same bed with me every night, I don't give a fuck how big the bedroom is."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. Come on, the pizza can wait." I stand up, pulling him after me with one hand, the other unbuttoning my shirt. He laughs and tries to help as we stumble towards the bedroom. Once we get in there, though, once we're undressed, he gets serious. He makes love to me slowly, tenderly, paying careful attention to every inch of my body, leaving me gasping and sweaty and begging for more. Then he's the one begging as I ease my way inside him, and then neither one of us is capable of speech as we work our bodies together. I'm not even sure which one of us comes first.

After, I get up just long enough to grab the phone and the pizza menu. This time I'm the one who goes in his bathrobe to answer the door and pick up the food. I bring the pizza back to the bed, and we eat it there, managing to avoid pizza sauce on the sheets by licking it off each other whenever (and wherever) any spills. I put the box in the kitchen when we're done, and when I get back in bed, he rests his head on my chest.

"I'll tell you one thing," he says, running his fingers idly along my stomach.

"What's that?" I ask, kissing the top of his head.

"We're keeping this bed."

I smile. "Yeah?"

He nods, stubble brushing my skin. It tickles. "Yeah. I have a certain sentimental attachment." I reach for his hand and bring it to my mouth, and he squirms a little, until he can see me.

"It's where I first saw you naked," I acknowledge.

"It's where we slept, the first time," he adds.

"It's where you fucked me, the first time," I say huskily, "and where you're going to fuck me the next time, too."

He smiles. "Is that so? When exactly did you think that next time was going to happen?"

"How about now?"

He tastes like pizza at first, but after a few minutes he just tastes like Bill.

———-

The next morning we head out again. Yesterday was my last day off for awhile, so we only have time to see a couple places before I have to hit the lunch shift. Karen's all enthusiastic, convinced that today will be the day, that one of the two houses she has lined up will be perfect. Before we head to the first showing, she gives us a little pep talk.

"Okay, I really hope you guys will like this one. Like I told Tim yesterday, it's just come on the market, and it's a steal at $995,000. It's got wood floors, a view of the river, downtown, and the mountains; a library, a gym, and a pool, but it's not nearly as large as some of the homes we saw yesterday. The lot is a little smaller than you wanted, but the way it's set up, I think you'll have all the privacy you could want—it's practically surrounded by Forest Park. And the neighborhood is great. It's not suburban at all—it's within the city, eight minutes from downtown."

"Sounds great, Karen," I say, trying to convince myself, wondering what we would need with a gym or a pool. Bill looks skeptical as well, but we head off to see the place anyway.

The minute we pull up into the driveway I'm intrigued, and I can tell Bill is too. The garage is detached, next to a guest house; there appear to be a total of five buildings, including the garage, none of them ostentatiously large, all of them built log cabin-style, the logs painted a dark brown that blends in with the surrounding trees. The lot is small, but it's surrounded on three sides by parkland. Across the street is an industrial area on the edge of the river; the view that way includes downtown. In the other direction it's all parkland, filled with trees.

We see the guest house first, and it's great—cozy, with a fireplace and built in shelves. Next we explore the gym, which Karen casually says she figures Bill could turn into a studio. He nods, looking interested. Then we walk across the deck to the main house. Within seconds, Bill and I are smiling at each other and Karen. By the time we make it up the narrow stairs that run between the kitchen and the loft, I know this is it.

"What do you think?" Bill asks cautiously, but I can tell he's excited.

"I think it's perfect. I can see us living here, can't you?"

"Yeah. Yeah, I can. Fuck, Tim, you're right, it's perfect. Do you care if we even see the other one?"

"No. Let's go tell Karen we want to make an offer."

"You're sure?"

"I'm sure." I grab him and kiss him. "When Billie comes to visit, she can stay in the guest house, or we can fix up the downstairs bedroom for her, because this here—this is where we're going to be sleeping."

"We're going to be doing a lot more than sleeping up here," he tells me, grabbing my ass, pulling me into another kiss.

"You got that right," I murmur when he lets me up for air. "But we'd better wait until the house is ours before we start, huh?"

"Fucking wet blanket," he tells me, squeezing my ass one more time before letting me go.

"The sooner we make an offer, the sooner we'll be able to move in."

"Yeah, yeah," he says, heading down the stairs, yelling for Karen before he reaches the kitchen. "Karen, where the fuck are you? Let's buy a house already!"

We head back to her office and get started on everything, but we haven't heard back about the offer when I have to leave for work. Bill offers to drive me to the bar and pick me up when my shift's over.

"Let's go out tonight, after you get back," he says, "Celebrate, you know?"

"Sure, that sounds good. How about Bluehour?"

He nods. "Great."

We keep driving for a minute. "Can I ask you something, Bill?"

"Sure."

"You're not—at the airport, and in Port Alberni, I mean, I know you said everyone in the band knows about us, but you don't, you're not worried about people seeing us, people finding out?"

He glances at me. "I don't give a fuck what people find out. I'm not hiding anything. I'm not going to go off and shout it from the rooftops, but if someone sees us, if some interviewer asks me a direct question, I'm not going to lie about it. Why, are you afraid of being outed?"

"What? No, it's not that at all. If people find out I'm with another man, it's no big deal. But it's different for you. People will treat you different. It might affect your record sales. You said you have stalkers already—imagine what might happen once it's public knowledge that you're gay. Because that's what they'll call you."

He shrugs. "That's what I am, Tim. I know you're big on the whole bisexuality thing, and that's fine for you, but I have to tell you, fucking groupies never meant shit to me. I tried dating some women when I first moved to California, and it didn't work. Joe, and you, those are the only two people I've loved, and if that makes me gay, I have no problem with that. If some fucking bigots decide not to buy a Jenifur record because their guitarist is a fag, good riddance. If it starts to affect sales enough that they fire me, fuck 'em. I've got enough money to last the rest of my life and take care of my kid, and that's all that matters. That, and you."

I reach over and squeeze his thigh. "I'm glad, Bill, really, I am. But are you sure you've thought this through? You've never—it's not exactly pleasant, when people who don't really know you start treating you differently." He pulls into the bar parking lot, but neither one of us gets out. He looks at me, waiting.

I take a breath, then say it. "I never told you about this one case I had, where this guy was murdering women, live, on the internet."

"That internet killer? I remember hearing about that, when was it, late nineties sometime, right? Shit, that was right before we met, wasn't it? I remember there was still shit about it in the papers in Baltimore. That was your case?"

"Me and another detective, Renee Sheppard. She was new, and it was her first redball—that's a big case, one the media's all over, one the bosses are crazy to get solved—and they wanted me to take over, although I didn't. Eventually we caught the guy, and then he got off on a technicality, but that's not why I brought it up."

"He got off on a technicality? Fuck, why didn't that get more news coverage? You'd have thought that would be on CNN or Court TV or something. What happened to the guy—is he still out there?"

"No, no, uh, he was killed right after he was released. But the point is, this guy Ryland, he used other people's web sites to host his murders, you know? And he went after the detectives on the case—went after Renee on a chat room, and went after me—"

"What did that fucker do?" he asks, a fierce protectiveness in his voice that warms me.

"He used my website. It was anonymous, just some stuff on Buddhism and bisexuality, and Ryland used it, and then it wasn't anonymous anymore. So the whole Baltimore police force found out about Tim Bayliss, the Zen Detective, the gay guy up in Homo-cide."

"It was rough, huh?"

I bark out a laugh. "You could say that. I met someone around that time, another cop, and when he found out, he stood me up for dinner, then called me a fag in front of all his buddies." I look at him. "I guess it all worked out for the best—if I'd been with Roger Fisk, I never would have met you—but after that, and Roshi Felder, I swore I was just going to be celibate. I was, too, for two and a half years."

"Fuck, Tim. I'm sorry you went through that, but I really don't think it's the same—"

"No, it's not the same—it's on a whole other scale, Bill, don't you see that? It was bad enough for me, with just the whole police department knowing, with the bosses breathing down my neck, telling me to shut down my website, but for you, it's going to be the whole world. Are you sure you know what you're getting into here, with this openness? People are going to see us, and they're going to figure it out. Before you know it, we'll be on the cover of the National Enquirer."

"Yeah, we probably will," he says, and he looks a little pissed. "Won't be the first time, not for me. You sure it's not you who's got a problem with that?"

I shrug. "I'm not a cop anymore. I don't have to worry that some uniform's not going to back me up, not anymore. The people that are important to me know about you already. I'm not thrilled that my private life is going to be public knowledge, but it's not me I'm worried about, it's you."

"Well, I'm telling you, don't. Don't worry about it. I'm not some naive kid, Tim—I know what I'm doing. I told you, I don't give a fuck what people think, and I meant it. But if you're uncomfortable with it, all you have to do is say something. If you'd rather keep it quiet, we'll keep it quiet."

"No, it's okay, Bill. If you're sure."

"I'm sure." He looks at me for a few seconds. "There's no one in Baltimore that's going to come after you, no one you're hiding from? Some felcher like this Ryland, someone who's out on the street and after your ass?"

"What?" I manage not to jerk away from him, from how close he's come to the truth. "No, there's no one after me, Bill, jesus."

"You're sure? Because I know there's something else, some other reason you left, something you're not telling me." He says it matter-of-factly, not making any big deal about it, just stating the obvious, but I still have to deny it.

"There isn't. A reason, or someone who's going to come after me. Gee died, I was burned out, and I needed a change, just like I told you."

He shakes his head. "You're a fucking lousy liar, Tim. Don't worry, you can keep your deep dark secret, for as long as you need to. And when you're ready to tell me, I'll be ready to listen." He starts the jeep again. "You sure you're okay with going out in public? Because we can celebrate at home if you want."

"No, it's fine. It'll be good to go out. And, you know, I have to work again tomorrow night—maybe you can come over to the bar? If that wouldn't be too weird for you."

"They got good food here?"

"They tell me the burgers are good. And I hear they've got a really hot bartender."

"That they do," he says, smiling. "I'll be there."

"Good." I lean in and kiss him. "I'd better get in there. You remember how to get back to Karen's office?"

"Yeah. I'll call you when I know anything. And you get off at 7, right?"

"Right."

"See you then." I get out, then watch him drive away.

"You're late," Keisha tells me as I walk in, but she's smiling.

"Yeah, I know—sorry."

"Of course, if I had someone that hot dropping me off, I'd probably be late too—is he your boyfriend?"

"What?" I say, hanging up my coat. Her tone is lighthearted, and she's obviously teasing, but it still throws me.

"Your boyfriend. Or am I wrong—you are gay, aren't you? Shit, never mind, forget I said anything; it's none of my business," she apologizes.

"I'm not—" I start to say, then catch myself, remembering what Bill just said in the car. "Yeah, I'm gay. Bisexual, anyway," I can't help adding. I wink at her, and she relaxes again.

"Better not mention the bisexual part to Desiree—she's already got a crush on you," Keisha teases. "So you are with that guy?"

"Yeah, I am," I say, smiling.

"What's his name, anyway?"

"Uh, Bill. His name is Bill." I knew she was a country music fan, but I'm still surprised she didn't recognize him.

"Am I ever going to meet this Bill?"

"He's coming by to grab some dinner during my shift tomorrow night. And he'll be here to pick me up tonight—you can meet him then, if you want," I say boldly.

"Cool," she says, smiling. Then a few customers come in, and we get to work.

A few hours into my shift, the phone rings. Keisha answers it, then gestures for me to come pick it up.

"Hello?" I say, a little nervously, hoping it's good news.

"When's the lease up on that shitty apartment of yours?"

"Fuck the lease. They took the offer?"

He laughs. "Think you can be ready to move by December 15th? Be in the new house before Christmas?"

"Shit, Bill, seriously?"

"Fuck yeah. We still got some paperwork to deal with, stuff we both need to sign, but it looks like a done deal. They are just as eager to sell as we are to buy—apparently they've bought a yacht and are itching to get it in the water and headed south as soon as possible."

"Wow. December 15th?"

"Yeah. It'll be a little tight—Trevor wanted to get the band back in the studio for a week or two before the holidays, try out some new stuff, but we won't be recording until after the new year, so I think it'll work out okay. Of course, if you wanted to just wait until January—"

"No, I don't want to wait—do you?"

"Fuck no," he says, and I smile. "I'd do it tomorrow if we could."

"Yeah, me too. Listen, when you come pick me up, come inside, okay? Keisha wants to meet you."

"That your boss?"

"Yeah, she and Joe own the bar," I confirm.

"You came out to her, huh?"

"She'd guessed, but yeah, I did."

"Good. Hold on." He says something to someone—Karen, I think. "Listen, I have to go. I'll see you at seven."

"Great—see you then."

The rest of the shift passes pretty quickly, and before I know it Bill's walking in the door. I introduce him to Keisha, and he puts on the Billy Tallent charm, gets her eating out of his hand. The next night he does the same for the rest of my co-workers. I feel awkward, but I seem to be the only one.

A few days later Bill heads back to LA. It's a little easier seeing him off this time, knowing I'll be heading down there myself in a few weeks. He'll be back just a few weeks after that, and then we'll move into our new house.

**II. Kshanti (Forbearance, patience, inclusiveness)**

_To suppress our pain is not the teaching of inclusiveness. We have to receive it, embrace it, and transform it. —Thich Nhat Hanh_

There are only three people who call my cell phone these days, and two of them have got to be asleep already—it's close to midnight. So I answer the phone with, "Hey, Bill, what's up?"

There's a pause, and I wonder if it was a wrong number, but then he speaks up. "Hey," he says, and his voice sounds different.

"What's wrong?"

"Nothing. Just wanted to say hi."

I put down the glasses I'm drying and go lean against the wall, somewhere I can watch the few customers and not have anyone overhear my conversation. "It's less than a week till I'm down in LA."

"I know."

"You going to meet me at the airport, or just send a limo?" I ask, hoping to get a laugh.

His voice stays flat. "Nah, I'll meet you, don't worry about that."

"I still don't have a clue what to get you for your birthday."

"You. Freak."

I can hear a little smile in his voice with that one, and I smile as well. "That's already yours, Bill."

"I'm glad. Fuck, Tim—"

"Cut the bullshit and tell me what's wrong."

"I have a tradition I haven't told you about. Happens every year around this time, for the last—well, this will be the sixth year. And it's not—I don't want to do it anymore, but I'm not sure I can stop."

"Are you drinking?" I ask carefully.

"No," he says wearily. "Not yet, anyway. But tomorrow—fuck."

"What's happening tomorrow?"

"Well, it's not exactly tomorrow. Because it was about three in the morning. But that's when it usually starts."

"Joe," I say, piecing it together.

"Got it in one, detective."

"I'm sorry, Bill."

He sighs. "Local liquor store plans on delivering. I had this agreement with them, set it up a few years ago."

"Call them and cancel."

"Yeah. Yeah, I'll do that. First thing, right after they open."

"You want me to do it? Give me the number."

"No, that's okay. I think I just needed—I'll do it, Tim. Tomorrow morning." He yawns. "Fuck, I'm tired."

"You sleeping okay?"

"Fuck no. But I think I might be able to tonight, if I go to bed now."

"Yeah, okay," I answer, reluctant to hang up, but not really having anything concrete to keep him on the phone. "Call me when you get up?"

"Sure."

"I could try to take off a few days early—"

"No, it's okay. I'll see you soon. Listen, I'm really fucking beat all of a sudden—I'll talk to you tomorrow, okay?"

"Sleep well."

"You too, Timothy."

He doesn't call the next morning, and when I try him, I get voice mail. I tell myself he's still asleep and try to relax. I'm working a long shift at the bar, and it's a busy one; I get a couple more chances to call, but I still get voicemail.

Finally, when I get home, he picks up the phone.

"I'm not drinking it," he says. "It's just sitting there. I'm not drinking it."

"Pour it out."

"Can't do that. Fuck, if I smell that shit, that's all it's gonna take. I'll pour it down my throat, not the sink." He swallows. "I don't know how much longer I can keep from pouring it down my throat anyway."

"Bill—"

"I, uh—I made a reservation. The flight leaves in a couple hours. I know I said—"

"I'll be there. I love you, Bill."

"Yeah, I know. Fuck—I'm sorry, Tim—"

"It's okay. Listen, I have to get some stuff together and head to the airport. I'll see you soon."

Fortunately, Keisha doesn't give me any shit about taking off early—I think she hears something in my voice that makes it pretty clear I'll just quit if she doesn't give me the time. Which is the truth.

I step off the plane at 2:15 am. There are a surprising number of people waiting for loved ones, friends, or whoever, but only one of them is wearing a black suit and carrying a sign that says "Mr. Bayliss." I try not to think about why Bill's not picking me up himself. I walk up to the kid, a short, skinny red-head who barely looks old enough to drive, and he greets me with a smile.

"Nice to meet you, Mr. Bayliss," he says cheerily. "I'm Dave. This all you got, or do we need to go to baggage claim?"

"No, this is it."

"Great. You go have a seat by the door, and I'll go get the car. Used to be easier to pick folks up, but with these new security precautions I can't leave it parked out front anymore."

I nod and follow him towards a bench near the door, where I can watch. A black stretch limo appears a few minutes later. Dave gets out and opens the door, and I get in for the long but comfortable ride to Bill's house.

I fall asleep for a few minutes, resting back against the leather seats; it's not like I've slept much since the phone call yesterday. I wake with a start as we're pulling up to a gate, hearing Dave's voice, then the noise of the gate opening to admit the limo. I'm out before Dave can open the door for me, barely glancing at the front of the house. Not that you can see much in the dark, but it looks big, and I can smell the sea. Dave looks a little disappointed, but he smiles and waves as I walk up to the front door.

It opens as I approach. Bill stands there briefly, a beer bottle in his hand, then walks down the hall, away from me. I follow him into the living room. He reeks of alcohol, the smell trailing after him as he drifts towards the living room. He throws himself loosely onto the sofa and tips the bottle to his mouth without saying a word.

"Bill—" I say, but he just glares at me and takes another drink, daring me to do anything about it. Then he turns on the television and starts flipping through the channels, pointedly ignoring me. I stand there for a minute, watching him, completely at a loss.

I might as well get rid of the bag on my shoulder. It takes a minute to find the master bedroom, full of clean, simple furniture, every bit as sophisticated and expensive as I expected. The bed is unmade, the sheets rumpled, and I push away the thoughts that brings up. I drop my bag next to the bed, hang my jacket in the closet, and go back out to the living room.

He's still watching television; as soon as he sees me, he takes another drink. I take the bottle out of his hands—he doesn't fight me—and go into the kitchen to dump the dregs into the sink. Then I open the fridge and take out the remaining bottles, open them, and start dumping them as well, expecting some sort of protest, but hearing nothing from the living room but the sound of the television.

I look up, and he's drinking from a clear glass bottle—looks like scotch. He must have had it next to the sofa, where I couldn't see it. I go back to him, and he stands up, facing me down as I reach for the bottle. He brings it to his mouth again, his throat working as he swallows repeatedly, guzzling, the whiskey more than halfway gone, and when I try to take it from him, he swings the bottle at my face, swearing. I manage to grab his hand just as the bottle connects with my chin—he's nearly six inches shorter than I am, and he's drunk, but he's strong, and he's quick.

The two of us struggle for control of the bottle. I almost let go when he starts punching me with his free hand. He does some damage—splits my lip, connects pretty hard with my nose, that kind of thing—but eventually my police training and longer reach enable me to get the bottle away from him, get to the sink, and dump it out.

I stand at the sink for a minute, Bill a few feet away from me. Both of us are breathing hard, trying not to let things escalate any further.

"Is that all of it?" I ask finally, "or do you have another fifth of scotch hidden somewhere?"

He shakes his head. "No, that was it," he says flatly.

"Okay," I say. "I'm going to go get cleaned up."

It takes me a few minutes—I have to change my shirt—but when I come back into the living room, he's lying on the living room sofa, his arm over his face, hiding his eyes. He's turned the television off.

"Are you awake?" I ask.

He nods, but he doesn't say anything. I run some water in the sink, trying to get rid of the smell.

"I'm sorry," he mumbles after I finish and turn the water off, his voice thick and barely audible.

"Yeah, I know," I answer, wondering what happens next. Nothing does, though—he just lies there, unmoving, his face covered.

"I'm going to make some coffee," I say eventually, and I see him nod behind his arm.

"There's some beans in the freezer. Grinder's next to the coffee maker on the counter." There's no slurring of words, only a slight extra care with the syllables. Someone who didn't know him (someone who didn't get close enough to smell him) might not have any idea he'd been drinking, but judging from the number of empty beer bottles I saw in the trash, not to mention the half a bottle of scotch he just now put away, he's got to be pretty damned hammered. It's only been four hours since the phone call—he must have started right after he hung up.

"Cups?" I ask neutrally.

"Above the sink, to the right."

I occupy myself with the task at hand, unwilling or unable to think about anything else. The coffee maker finishes and I pour two cups. As I add the cream, I remember the first time I made coffee for him, the morning he made me tell him about Larry Moss. I put the spoon in the sink and take the mugs out to the living room.

His arm is back at his side, but he's looking away from me, unable or unwilling to meet my eyes. Our fingers touch when I hand him his coffee, and he glances at me for a split second, then stares.

"Oh, fuck, Tim, did I do that?" he asks, reaching for but not quite touching my lower lip.

I shrug. "I've had worse. Remind me not to ever piss you off, okay?"

He lowers his head. "You'd be smart to just get the fuck away from me."

"I'm not going anywhere, Bill."

"I'm fucking serious. You don't want anything to do with me. I'll fucking let you down, Tim. I already have. And I'll keep doing it. This is just the beginning of the shit I'm going to put you through. I could just fucking pick up and leave you, you know? So you'd be better off getting out now."

"I'm not leaving. I'm not Joe, Bill, and you're not the same person you were six years ago."

He sits up at that, flinging his arms out. "How the fuck do you know that? You barely know me. How do you know this isn't the real me, huh? How do you know I'm not going to spend the rest of my fucking life getting drunk and hitting you?"

"I'm a detective, remember? I know people. I know you. I love you."

He sinks back into the sofa. "If you were as smart as you think you are, you'd stop that shit right now."

"I never said I was smart. But I'm good at what I do—what I did. And I don't want to stop, Bill." I run one finger along his temple, along the hairline. "And I don't believe you're going to let me down, or leave me."

He looks at me. "No, I won't leave you. Fuck, I probably should, now, save you the shit I'm going to put you through, but I can't. I don't think I ever could."

"If you did, I'd hunt you down."

He smiles a little. "You would, wouldn't you?" He sits there for a minute, thinking who knows what. I drink some coffee and look around again at the furniture. The reality of it hits me again, as it has at unexpected times the past few weeks. In another month, we'll be moving this furniture into our new house.

After a few more minutes, Bill looks up and says, "Fuck, I'm really fucked up. Don't have the tolerance for this shit I did in my youth—I might need some help getting to bed."

"You think?"

He barks out a laugh, then looks sorry he did. I gesture for him to make room, then sit next to him on the sofa. "You want to talk about it?"

"About what? Joe?"

"Yeah. I mean, I know the basics—he found out you were leaving the band, and he shot himself, right?"

"Except I wasn't going to leave the band. I mean, yeah, I was going back to Jenifur, but I was still going to stay in the Hard Cores. Or I was going to try; fuck knows if I would've succeeded. But the fucker didn't talk to me about it, just started punching me after the last encore, then smashed the fuck out of the Strat, and that was it. I couldn't fucking take any more, not that night, so I walked the fuck out. And then he fucking shot himself on the fucking street." He hangs his head again. "I should've gone back. I should've talked to him. Fuck, even after he smashed the Strat, I probably still would've stayed—I just couldn't—how could he do that?"

"I don't know. Most people who commit suicide have been thinking about it for a long time before they do it. I'm sure that was the case with Joe, too."

"What are you, some sort of fucking shrink?" His voice is getting a little slurred now, his gestures wider, despite the coffee.

"I've seen a lot of suicides. It was part of my job." I don't say any more than that.

"You had to figure out if they offed themselves or someone else did the deed, huh?"

"Yeah, I did." More times than I can remember.

"What's it look like?"

"What?"

He points his finger at his temple. "Gunshot to the head, film at eleven. I wasn't there; I didn't see. What's it look like? You're a murder po-leese. You've seen hundreds of dead bodies, right? Lots of gunshots to the head. So tell me what it looks like, what Joe looked like, lying on the street. His brains were probably leaking out, right?"

"You want me to tell you what it looks like? Why?"

"I never saw him. It was a closed casket, and besides, I was drunk at the funeral—drunker than I am now. And contrary to what some fuckers think, it wasn't me who stole his fucking corpse. I want to know. I need to know how fucking stupid and gross and stupid he looked, lying on the sidewalk, bleeding. His eyes were probably open, right? 'Cause it's only in fucking PG movies and on television that people die with their fucking eyes closed. Fucking fakes. Tell me what he looked like," he pleads.

Against my better judgment, I ask, "He shot himself in the temple?"

Bill nods. "McDonald said so. Said he took a shot and then took his shot, so to speak. Tell me. And I want details. What did it look like?"

I look at him closely. He doesn't look like he's going to give up anytime soon, and, drunk as he is, he's pretty with it, although his head is weaving back and forth a tiny bit. If I play this right, maybe it'll help.

"What do you want to know?"

"What does a bullet hole look like?"

"The entrance wound would be small and round, with some powder burns around the edges, stippled, from it being such close range. So, black and grey on the outside, and red on the inside, from the blood."

"Yeah, that's what I thought," he mumbles, a little pale. "But there'd be an exit wound, right? What would that look like?"

"Probably there would be, unless there was some weird ricochet off the skull. It'd be bigger, maybe a lot bigger, depending on the caliber, and it might be round, but more jagged. There'd be bone fragments in there—they're kind of yellow-white—and of course a lot of blood."

He's getting paler, a little green around the gills. Good. "And you'd be able to see into his head? See his brain? Do the brains really leak out, like you hear about?"

"Yeah, they do. They're not liquid, but they're not-the consistency is kind of like pudding, yellowish-grey pudding, in this shiny covering, and when the covering is punctured by the bullet—"

Suddenly he's completely green, his hand in front of his mouth, and I barely have time to get him to the kitchen sink before he's puking his guts up. I hide a smile.

Most of it lands in the sink, but he manages to mess up his shirt. "Come on, shower," I say when he appears to have finished, for the moment at least.

He follows me without complaint, quietly submitting as I strip both of us down and get him in the shower with me. He leans against the tile, eyes closed, and lets me run the soap over him, relaxing bonelessly as I wash his hair. I ignore the predictable response I have seeing him naked, to washing his crotch, his dick soft and unresponsive. I have to work to get him out of the shower—he's getting closer to passing out—but eventually I get us both dried off.

I'm about to urge him towards the bedroom when he opens his eyes and starts sliding down to the floor, his face in his hands. It takes me a second to realize he's weeping silently. I put a tentative hand on his shoulder and he throws himself into my arms, his whole body shaking. I hold onto him, stroking his hair, until he's still. Then I help him up and into bed.

I watch him for awhile, make sure he's breathing okay. Even after his shower, the smell is nearly overpowering, and that alone keeps me awake a while longer, but eventually I do fall asleep.

I hear him get up once, but then neither one of us stirs until I wake up. It's after 11, but the room is still dark, thanks to the heavy curtains. Bill's still asleep; he doesn't move when I get out of bed. I take another shower; I think I need to wash the stink of the previous night off me.

I get dressed and start looking through the kitchen for some cereal, ignoring the spectacular view of the ocean now visible through the living room windows. Bill emerges, looking relatively normal in sweats and a t-shirt. "Coffee?" he asks in a rasp, and I gesture at the machine.

"You should drink some water," I say, and he nods. "How's your head?"

He shrugs. "I've had worse." He looks at me for the first time. "Fuck, Tim, I'm sorry—you look like a fucking prizefighter. You shouldn't have done that."

"I shouldn't have taken the bottle away? What the fuck are you talking about?" I ask, more pissed than I was the night before.

"All I'm saying is, it would've been better if you'd just let me drink until I passed out," he says, like that's the most reasonable thing in the world. "Then I wouldn't have hit you."

"I couldn't do that."

"Yeah, no fucking kidding. Freak. You're a fucking bartender, don't you know better than to come between a drunk and his bottle?"

"When it's somebody else, maybe," I concede.

He snorts. "Idiot."

"When's the last time you went to a meeting?"

"You mean that AA bullshit? I don't do that."

I take a breath and let it out slowly. "You're an alcoholic, Bill."

"Yes I am, Detective," he says mincingly. "My name is Bill, and I'm an alcoholic. I've also used a lot of bad, bad drugs." His voice darkens. "Just because I'm an alcoholic doesn't mean I have to buy into that 12 step higher power bullshit, Tim. I am not fucking powerless—I chose to stop drinking, and I stopped."

"You've never been to a meeting?"

"I went once. Hated it, never went back."

"When was that?"

"Ten years ago, the first time I came to LA. Fuck, Tim, have you ever been to one of those things? Have you ever read the fucking twelve steps? Half of them refer to God, and that bullshit is just not—it won't work. Not for me."

"Okay, fine," I say, frustrated. "There have got to be alternatives, other groups you can go to, right?"

"I guess. I've never felt the need to go to any fucking support group, Tim. You said yourself, when you quit smoking, the only thing that worked was to go cold turkey, right?"

"Right, right, but Kay Howard was quitting at the same time. And I tried different things, including support groups."

"But what worked was going cold turkey."

"Yes, that's what worked, eventually," I say. "But I did quit. I haven't smoked again, Bill. Not in eight years."

"So you're a better man than I. Stronger. Big fucking deal. It's not like I'm getting drunk every weekend, Tim—it's once a year."

"So, what, you're planning on a repeat performance in 2002?"

"Maybe," he says, a challenge in his voice. "You think you could handle that?"

"I know I could, if I have to," I reply firmly. Whether it's what I'm supposed to say or not, it's how I feel—I'm not giving up on him, no matter what. "I hope I won't have to, though," I add. "I'd rather not."

He sighs. "Idiot. You are a fucking idiot. You do know that, don't you?"

I figure there's no use in answering. I sit down at the table, and he joins me, coffee in hand. "What happened?" I ask after a minute. "When I talked to you, you were doing okay, but you must have started drinking right after that. What happened?"

He shrugs. "Don't know if you really want to hear this."

"Tell me."

He takes a sip of his coffee. Glances up at me, then looks down. "Once I knew you were on your way," he says, glancing up at me again, "it was easier, somehow. I knew you were coming, so I stopped fighting it. I told myself I was just going to dump it out in the sink, like you told me to, but I knew better, knew I was going to end up drinking it, even if I did manage to pour one beer down the drain.

"I knew you were coming, and you'd stop me. That, or you'd find me passed out—either way, it'd be over. So it was easier to just start drinking, to just let myself go numb and stop fighting so hard. Easier to let go. Stupid, I know."

"No, I get it," I tell him, thinking about how much easier it got when I gave up fighting and just went and got my gun. Easier until I looked down at Ryland's body on the street and realized what I'd done. "But the next day, it's not so easy anymore," I murmur, more to myself than to him.

"No, it's not," he answers, looking at me curiously. "You got something to tell me?"

"What? No, of course not. Just thinking out loud."

"Okay," he says after a minute, "so what do we do now? I gather you're enough of a freak that you're sticking around—"

"I'm sticking around because I love you, Bill," I tell him, wanting to make sure there's no misunderstanding. "Which doesn't mean I intend to be some sort of doormat or punching bag." He winces at that. "You don't like AA, fine. But I'm sure you can find a way to work on your addictions without involving any 'higher power bullshit.'"

"Yes, mom," he says, cracking a smile.

"Fuck you."

"No, we'll do that later," he says, smirking, and I can't help laughing, the tension breaking up just like that. Maybe I should pursue it some more, but it feels so good to laugh with him that I drop it. We hang out for a couple hours, drinking coffee and watching a hockey game on television, then go out and get some dinner. We don't talk about the previous night again, although I catch him looking at me now and then with a guilty expression.

The rest of the week goes, if not perfectly, at least relatively smoothly. The hockey game is great, seats right behind the penalty box, center ice. We stay in for his birthday, barely leaving the bed. We head in to the studio the next day, and I meet his band mates and watch them rehearse.

The time passes quickly, and before I know it, I'm back in Portland, moving from California sun and surf back to rain and clouds and falling temperatures. Bill comes up for Thanksgiving, then returns to LA to handle packing up the house. There's no more drinking, and no more talk of drinking, twelve step programs, or Joe's suicide. I know I should talk to him about counseling, but it's easier to let it alone.

We take possession of the house a couple days before the movers come up from LA, so we stay a few nights in Karen's guest room. I end up working the lunch shift the day the movers arrive, unable to get out of it, but Bill assures me he can handle everything just fine without me.

**III. Dhyana (Meditation)**

_We need to shine the light of mindfulness on everything we do, so the darkness of forgetfulness will disappear. The first function of meditation—shamatha—is to stop. —Thich Nhat Hanh_

By the time I get home—home, jesus, what a thought—it's getting dark, and the unpackers have left. It's very strange to use the key, check the newly-installed security system, come inside, and see the house for the first time with furniture in it. I head up the stairs and find Bill, busy on the floor of the living room, sorting through cds. I ruffle his hair and start wandering around, looking at the house—our house—with our stuff in it. His, mostly, but mine, too. My bed, the one we first shared, is over in the guest house. My cds and videos are mixed up with his. My books, the Buddhist books I'd kept in storage but never been able to get rid of, they're here, mixed with his on these shelves.

Wait.

The books are jumbled together, not in any particular order—Suzuki, Glassman, Thich Nhat Hanh, the Dalai Lama, Charlotte Joko Beck, Zinn, Pema Chodron. Pema Chodron? There are two copies of _Zen Mind, Beginner's Mind_, and I'm pretty sure I never had a copy of _The Heart of the Buddha's Teaching_. Or _The Complete Idiot's Guide to Zen Living_. I think _Engaged Buddhism in the West_ is mine, but I'm not sure.

"Bill?" I say.

"Yeah, what is it?"

I gesture at the bookshelf. "Since when do you read Suzuki Roshi?"

He shrugs, then points to the cd rack. "Since when do you listen to DOA? I guess I understand you having some of my old stuff, but I never figured you for a punk fan."

"I'm not, really," I say, then shrug myself. "Point taken." I look at him. "You know I'm not practicing anymore."

"I've never understood why. Didn't you ever talk to that guy, the one you said you were going to?"

"No, I never did."

"Why the fuck not?"

It's on the tip of my tongue to tell him it's none of his business, but I stop myself. "Things happened, and I just didn't. Listen, can we talk about something else?"

He looks at me for a minute. "Yeah, okay." He considers something, then stands and stretches. "Get your ass over here, okay?"

I move towards him with a smile.

"Welcome home," he murmurs, then pulls me in for a kiss. It's a long, slow, thorough kiss, and at the end of it I feel very welcome indeed.

"Thanks," I tell him, stroking his face.

"Come on," he says, taking my hand and pulling me towards the kitchen. I follow him up the narrow stairs to the loft.

"I figured we should try it out," he says, gesturing at the bed, already made up in soft blues and greens. "It being new and all."

"Yeah, yeah, that's a good idea," I say, smiling. "Don't want to find out it's not any good just when we're ready to go to sleep."

"Uh-huh, that's right," he says, his fingers busy on the buttons of my shirt. "Besides, I have a plan."

"A plan, huh? What sort of plan?" I ask, shrugging out of my shirt and shucking my pants as he does the same.

"It's our house, right? So, you know, we can do what we want in it."

"Yeah?" I ask, pulling him down onto the bed with me.

"We can do what we want, in any place we want, any time we want," he says, running his hands over my chest.

"That we can," I concede, kissing his neck, tonguing his ear, rubbing my cock against his hip a little.

"So this, now, this is just the first time." One hand snakes around to my ass. "The first time you fuck me in our new house, in our new bed."

"Is that what this is going to be?" I murmur, then go back to mouthing his collarbone.

"That's what I figured, yeah," he says, his voice catching as I go for a nipple. "Next time, I figure we'll do it in that huge fucking shower. That's a great shower, Tim. We're going to do a lot in that shower. That shower was made for fucking. You do realize that, don't you?"

"Mmmhmmm," I mumble, because my mouth is too busy to form words. Jesus, I'll never get tired of his skin, the way it feels to my hands and my lips, the way it tastes, the way it smells, especially when he's like this, writhing a little underneath me as I explore his body.

"After that, we'll try out the, oh, fuck, Tim, that's good, uh, we'll try it maybe in the library, how's that sound, or the studio, fuck, god, I want you _everywhere_, gonna suck you off next to the pool, gonna fuck you in the dining room, gonna go out to the guest house and rub you up in your old bed, jesus, gonna get you off in every single room in this house, _god_, Tim—" and then he grunts as I finish my leisurely exploration of his balls and finally take his cock in my mouth.

I take my time, making it last as long as I can, enjoying the feel of his silky skin; the heat of him; the taste, salty, then bitter; the sound of his breathing; the occasional muttered word or syllable. His hands in my hair, clenching and releasing as he tries not to thrust, as he lets go, lets me do everything and anything to drive him insane, until his hands tighten again, painfully, just for a second, and then he fills my mouth.

I give him a few seconds to catch his breath before I grab the lube, turn us over onto our sides, and push slowly inside him. He's talking again, telling me, "now, yeah, harder, come on, more," until it takes me over, takes me deep inside him, deep inside myself, inside him, until neither one of us is capable of anything other than grunts and moans as I rock into him, as he rocks back against me, until I throw my head back and come inside him.

Later, after a shower and dinner, he asks me about Christmas. We decide to get a tree, and he persuades me to invite my mother to join us. I only agree because I'm sure she'll say no.

"You'd better call her," he says. "It's only a week and a half from now."

"I can't call her now," I say patiently. "It's after midnight in Baltimore."

"Have you even told her about me?"

"What? Of course I have." It's not a lie, not exactly.

"What have you told her? That you've got a new roommate?"

"Okay, okay, yes," I admit with a grimace. "But can we drop it for now? I've got better things to do than worry about coming out to my mom."

"Yeah, okay," he says, leaning in to kiss me. And it turns out the living room floor works almost as well as the bed, although I think we both end up with rug burns. Good thing the rug's washable.

He mentions it a few times the next couple days, not pushing, just not letting me pretend to forget. Karen bugs me about it too. She brings it up at dinner, the first dinner the four of us have at the new house, two days after we move in.

So the next day, after I make my way home through the cold and the rain, I sit down in the study and dial the phone. It's still early afternoon in Oregon, so I picture her sitting and watching some television after dinner back in Baltimore. Sure enough, I can hear it in the background when she picks up the phone.

"Hello?"

"Hi, Mom."

"Tim? It's good to hear from you. How are you?"

"I'm fine, Mom. I'm great."

"I'm glad to hear it. I talk to your sister and Casey a lot, but I never seem to hear from you. I like to know you're doing all right, son."

"I know—I'm sorry."

"Karen says you're seeing someone."

"Yeah, yeah, I am. I, uh, I wanted to talk to you about that."

"So, talk. What's her name? How long have you been seeing her? Karen wouldn't tell me anything, so I'm very curious."

"Well, see, the thing is, uh," I fumble, "we met about three years ago, but we've been together almost a year." Chickenshit, that's me.

"A year? It sounds serious," she says, and I can tell she knows I'm hiding something.

"It is, Mom. We just bought a house together." I'm not going to hide it, not going to hide how I feel about Bill. He's the best thing that ever happened to me.

"So you're not going to be moving in with your friend, what's his name, Bill?"

"No, I am. I have. Bill's the one I'm seeing. He's not my roommate, he's my—" and I can't manage to say "lover" to my mom, and "partner" will always and forever mean Frank, so I stumble a little and settle for, "he's my boyfriend. I love him, Mom."

Silence for a few seconds, then, "But Tim—you're not," she hesitates, "you're not homosexual!"

"Not strictly speaking, Mom, no, I'm not. But I am bisexual. I'm sorry—I know that's not what you want to hear; I know you wanted me to get married, settle down—"

"I don't understand," she interrupts, sounding just as upset as I knew she would be. "You've had girlfriends, Tim. You've always dated girls."

"No, see, I haven't," I say as gently as I can. "Starting a few years ago, I started going out with men. I never told you about it, but Jim found out—that's why he pulled away from me; you had to have noticed-"

"I noticed, son, but I thought—I don't know what I thought, but I certainly never thought it was because you were _homosexual_—does your sister know about this? Please tell me you haven't told Casey!"

"They know, both of them. They've met Bill, and they like him. The four of us have dinner together once a week, Mom." I can't keep the exasperation out of my voice, because of course she has to bring up Casey, just like Jim brought up his kids, like it was some sort of communicable disease.

"I just—I don't know what to say, Tim. I don't know how I'm supposed to react to this. I'm not—I never expected anything like this, not from you. I wanted your life to be happy. That's all I've ever wanted."

"I _am_ happy," I say, trying not to think about how little she seemed to care about my happiness when her brother-in-law was groping me every chance he got. "I'm happier than I've ever been before. I love him, Mom, and he loves me. Do you hear what I'm saying?"

"I hear you, son; I'm not deaf," she says, sniffling a little.

"Listen, Mom, the reason I called—I wanted, we wanted, Bill and I, we wanted to invite you here. For Christmas. You could stay here, in the house, or if you'd feel more comfortable at Karen's, that's fine, but we'd really like you to come," I say, wincing at the awkwardness of the invitation.

"Oh, I don't know about that, son, I was planning on going over to your aunt Carol's house," she hedges, "and it'd be awfully expensive to fly at this short notice, especially this time of year."

"Don't worry about that, Mom. We can afford tickets—first class."

"First class? Don't be ridiculous."

"No, no, see, Bill—okay, Mom, I know this is a lot to take in, but Bill is, well, he's rich. He's a famous musician, and he has a lot of money. So, you know, we can afford to fly you out here, no problem."

"You're right, Tim," she says abruptly. "This is a lot to take in. I think I need some time. I'll call you in a day or two, all right?"

"Yeah, all right," I say, defeated. I told myself I didn't care how she was going to react, but I lied. "I love you, Mom." Because I do, still, despite everything.

"I love you too, son. I'll talk to you later."

After she hangs up I realize I never gave her the new phone number. I sigh. If she wants to call, she can get it from Karen. I hear Bill coming down the stairs; I look up as he enters the study and sits on the arm of the chair.

"How'd it go?" he asks, hand on the back of my neck, squeezing gently.

"Well, she didn't disown me," I say, trying to smile.

"That bad, huh?"

I shrug. "About what I expected."

"Fuck, I'm sorry, Tim—"

"No, ssh," I tell him, fingers on his lips. "I wanted to tell her. I want her to know."

"You do, huh?" he asks through my fingers, his own fingers reaching up to run through my hair.

"Yeah, I do," I murmur, moving my hand to his chin, then pulling him closer so I can kiss him. He leans into me, then laughs as he starts to fall off the arm of the chair. "Get over here," I tell him, and he laughs again, maneuvering until he's straddling me, one knee on either side of my hips.

I kiss him again, long and slow, my hands working their way under the flannel and cotton he's wearing to the warm, smooth skin underneath.

"So you're sure you're not missing out on anything?" he asks after a few minutes, caressing my face. "You're not pining away for the wife and kids and white picket fence your mom wants for you?"

"I've got everything I've ever wanted, right here," I tell him.

He starts unbuttoning my shirt. "I can think of one thing we don't have right here."

"Oh yeah? What's that?"

"Lube," he says with a wicked grin, standing up. "Come on, let's go upstairs."

"Hey, I thought you wanted to try every room in the house," I say, taking the hand he offers me.

"Yeah, I know I said that, but I'm ready for the bed out again. I'm not getting any younger here, Tim. My back can't take any more gymnastics, at least not for the next day or so." He throws another wicked grin over his shoulder, and the two of us practically run up the two flights of stairs to the loft, shedding clothing along the way. "Besides," he says, peeling off his boxer briefs and tossing them over the railing, "I haven't fucked you in this bed yet."

"Yeah, and you haven't sucked me in this bed yet, either," I answer, tossing my boxers after his, pinning him to the bed.

"Well, I guess you've got a choice to make, buddy—which is it gonna be?"

"Oh, I don't know, maybe I'll just rub up against you until I drive you crazy," I say, suiting action to words. He laughs and wraps arms and legs around me.

"Gonna fuck you," he whispers in my ear, a hint of laughter still in his voice, laughter and something else. "Gonna fuck you now, in our bed. Gonna take my time with it, go nice and slow, until you're the one who's going crazy, you hear me?"

"Mmmm, I hear you," I murmur, smiling, and then I kiss him, and neither one of us says anything articulate again for a long, long time. Because he does, he takes his time, and by the end of it I am going crazy, on my side, one foot braced on the foot of the bed, just like the first time, except this time there are no neighbors to worry about. This time we're at home, in our home, where we both live, where we'll both still be tomorrow, and the next day, and next week, and next month.

We fall asleep afterwards, and when I wake up, all I want to do is stay in our warm, comfortable bed, maybe get some food in an hour or two. It turns out Bill's got other ideas.

"Hey, I want to show you something," he says, sitting up and pulling on a sweatshirt that's practically the only clothing visible—most of what we were wearing is either on the stairs, the railing, or somewhere else between the study and the bedroom. "Let's go out to the studio, okay?"

"You're going to make me get dressed again? Bill, it's raining outside. And it's cold. Can't we just stay here? It's nice here." I wriggle suggestively against the sheet, and he laughs, tossing me my boxers.

"It'll mean getting you undressed again later, and warmed up—think of it that way. And we won't get wet—the overhang'll be there."

"All right, all right," I grumble, opening the dresser and pulling on some sweats. I grab socks and shoes and follow him down the stairs and out into the rain, where we do get wet, because the overhang doesn't go all the way.

We walk into the studio, and I realize this is the first time I've seen it since it was remodeled—Bill got some workers started the day we moved in, and I haven't been in since. They must have finished up sometime today, while I was at the bar.

"Wow, it looks great," I tell him, looking around at the equipment, the soundproof windows, everything new and spotless.

"Yeah, it turned out okay," he says, smiling. "What I wanted to show you is over here, though." He gestures at a door, and I open it.

Whatever I was expecting to see when I opened the door, it wasn't a miniature zendo. My Buddha statue is set up on a beautiful wooden table, and there are two sets of cushions—mine and another.

"What do you think?" he asks, starting to move past me. "I wasn't sure how to set up the altar—"

I put a hand up, preventing his entrance. "No, you need to take off your shoes first," I say quietly, taking mine off, already more aware of my breath, like a reflex I'd forgotten I had.

"Yeah, okay," he murmurs, taking them off, watching me intently. He follows me into the room, bowing at the doorway after me.

"Is it okay?" he asks softly. "I didn't know whether I should set up the cushions facing the altar or the wall."

"It's fine, Bill. It's great—it's beautiful. But when did you start meditating?"

He shrugs. "I haven't, really. I've done some reading, and I bought the cushions—shit, I ordered them a few months after we met, kind of tried to sit. But I never really figured out what the fuck I was supposed to do. I thought maybe you could show me."

"I'm not a Buddhist anymore," I say, but I hear the uncertainty in my voice, and I know he won't miss it.

He turns to face me. "Maybe, maybe not. Even if you're not, that doesn't mean you can't meditate, does it? Show me the ropes? I was thinking it might help, you know?"

"Help me with what, exactly?" I ask, feeling defensive.

"Not you, dumbass," he says affectionately. "Me. With the drinking. One of the books I read, one by Thich Nhat Hanh—"

"Thich," I correct him. "It's pronounced 'tick,' not 'thick.'"

"Yeah, whatever," he says, with a little smile like he's won an argument. Which I guess he has. "The book talked about, uh, habit energy and mindfulness, and even though it sounded stupid, I thought it might help."

"So you want me to teach you how to sit?"

"Yeah, I want you to teach me how to sit," he says, still smiling that 'I win' smile. "You think you can bring yourself to do that?"

"Now?" I ask in one more attempt to warn off the inevitable.

"Yeah, now." He looks at me closely. "Shit, Tim, if this really is too traumatic for you—"

"No, no, it's fine," I say with an effort. Breathe. I've meditated hundreds of times before. There's no reason I can't do it again. "You said you've done some reading?"

"Yeah. So I'm supposed to count my breaths, right? That doesn't sound too difficult."

"It's harder than you think," I murmur, then move the cushions so that they're facing each other. "This way you'll be able to see what I'm doing," I explain. I stop for a minute to admire the bell. "Jesus, Bill, this is beautiful. How much did it cost?"

"Don't remember," he says casually. "I wanted something with a good sound."

I kneel down and carefully ring the bell. The rich tones fill the room, and my eyes burn. I ring it twice more, breathing deeply.

I light the candle and the incense with the lighter Bill's left there. Then I show Bill a couple different positions, explaining that some people prefer kneeling, some sitting. He follows my lead and sits, and I explain what to do if he has to sneeze, if he falls asleep, if he has an itch, remembering when I first sat, how awkward I felt.

I don't feel awkward as I position myself on my cushions, which surprises me. I settle in quickly, making the minor adjustments I've made countless times before.

"How long are we going to do this?" Bill asks quietly.

"About twenty minutes, I guess," I answer, thinking that's long enough for his first time. "Then we can do walking meditation, if you want."

"Sure," he says. "That sounds good."

I ring the bell again, and we sit.

I haven't meditated for nearly three years at this point, but it doesn't seem to matter. It feels right to be doing it again, right to be watching my breath, watching my thoughts, aware of the deep love I feel for the man sitting across from me. The twenty minutes passes quickly, and it's with reluctance that I ring the bell, but my back is aching, and I know Bill's has to be bothering him as well.

He stumbles a little, getting up—his feet probably fell asleep—but he follows my lead in bowing and walking, and then we sit for a few more minutes. We're silent as we walk back to the main house, but it's a good silence, the kind of peaceful silence I remember from retreats.

He moves towards the kitchen once we get inside, but I stop him with a hand on his arm. "Thank you," I say, full of emotion I can't quite articulate.

He lays his hand along the side of my face, the way he so often does, and I lean into its warmth and solidity. "You're welcome," he says softly. "Merry Christmas. And thank you."

"You liked it?"

He smiles. "Yeah, I did. You're right—it's harder than it seems like it should be, just breathing and counting—but it was good. I feel good—peaceful. Hungry, but peaceful."

"Hungry, huh?" I ask, pulling him into my arms, nuzzling his neck.

"Mmm, yeah, for food, you know?" he says, fingers in my hair. "This, too—I'm always hungry for this—" he kisses me quickly. "But that'll wait until after we eat." He pulls away, but I grab his hand.

"I love you."

He looks at me. "Yeah, I know," he says softly. "How'd I get so fucking lucky?"

"I thought that was my line."

He snorts.

"What?"

"Some punk I am," he says. "I meet you and suddenly I'm all fucking hearts and flowers."

"Your secret's safe with me," I tell him, smiling.

After dinner, we're on the sofa again. The Canucks are playing the Oilers, so Bill's pretty intent on the game. I've got my head resting on his thigh, pretending to read a magazine but really just dozing, when the phone rings.

Bill picks it up. "Hello? Yeah, that's me—who's this?" He sits up straighter, almost dislodging my head, then squeezes my shoulder apologetically. "Uh, hi, Mrs. Bayliss, Tim's right—what? Yeah, okay, sure." He looks at me with just a touch of panic, fingers digging into my shoulder painfully, then loosening. "What do you want to know? Uh-huh. Yeah, I'm a guitar player. You've heard of, well, probably you haven't heard of them, but the group is Jenifur, and—oh, you have heard of them? Great. Well, then you probably know they sell a fu—a lot of records. So, yeah, I have a lot of money."

I shake my head. I can't believe this. I reach up for the phone, but he points his finger and glares at me.

"No, I'm not from California, I'm from Vancouver. Yeah, it's in Canada. I moved down here about ten years ago. Family? Uh, no, my parents are dead; I was an only child. The only family I've got is my daughter, and Tim," he says, looking down at me with a smile. "What? Yeah, she's ten. Lives with her mom up in Regina; that's in Saskatchewan. Yeah, he met her a few months ago. No, I was never—her mom was a fan of the band, kind of a groupie," he says, his expression almost comical as he tries to figure out how to tell my mother—my _mother_—about Billie, and I reach up to take the phone again, furious at the way she's grilling him, but he shakes his head again, his hand on my chest, pushing me back down.

"I'm not really sure this is any of your business, Mrs. Bayliss, but no, I never loved Mary. I was in a band, she was a groupie, I was doing a lot of drinking back then, and that kind of thing can happen. I didn't even know she'd had a baby until a few years later. No, I'm not drinking anymore." His patience is clearly running out, and he looks like he might be ready to just give me the phone already, but then he pauses, and his expression softens.

He looks down at me again, moving his hand from my chest to my cheek. "I love him," he tells my mother, looking at me. "I know I'm not what you had in mind for your son, but I do love him, and I plan on spending the rest of my life with him, if he can put up with me that long."

I take his hand in mine and bring it to my lips. He gives me a little smile.

"Yeah, see, that's our common ground, there. We both love him, and we both want him to be happy." He listens, looks thoughtful, still gazing down at my face. "Well, yeah, that's pretty much what it is, Mrs. Bayliss. That's what it feels like, to me. Yeah, I think it is. Okay, well, I should let you talk to your son now—" I sit up, putting my arm around him.

He starts to hand the phone to me, then stops and puts it to his ear again. "What's that? Yeah, I'd like that. Okay, Virginia, here's Tim."

He hands me the phone, and I take it, holding it off to the side, and lean in to kiss him once, then twice. I keep my forehead to his as I bring the phone to my ear.

"Hi, Mom," I say, my voice sounding surprisingly normal. "What are you still doing up?"

"I couldn't sleep," she says. "I kept thinking about our conversation earlier, and I just couldn't sleep. I didn't even know what I was going to say when I called, but when your—" she hesitates, then goes on, "when Bill answered the phone, I just had to—"

"Had to what, interrogate him? Come on, Mom, don't you think you went a bit overboard?"

"I love you, son," she says with wounded dignity. "I don't think it's out of line for a mother to want to know something about the person her son's chosen to share his life with."

"You could find out a lot more about him if you came for Christmas."

"I know. And I think I'd like to take you up on your offer."

"You would?" My voice stays steady, thankfully, although I pull away from Bill with a jerk.

"Yes. I thought I could fly out on the 23rd and back on the 26th, if that works out for you two."

"Uh, yeah, that would work," I answer, stunned. "But, listen, Mom, why don't you stay a little longer? Billie—that's Bill's daughter—she's flying down on the 27th and staying through New Year's. Why don't you stay a few days longer, so you can meet her?" I realize after I've said it that I should have checked with Bill first, but he's smiling at me, so I guess it's okay with him.

"Well, I'd like to be back here for Jim's party, but I guess I could stay until the 30th," she says, and before I know it I'm telling her we'll call her tomorrow with her flight information and hanging up the phone.

"My mom's coming out for Christmas," I tell Bill, still in shock. "She's coming on the 23rd. That's in three days. And she's going to stay here. Until the 30th."

"That's great, Tim," he says with a grin, "We'll put her in the guest house, and B can stay downstairs."

"Jesus. I have to call Karen. Do you think she'll mind if we have Christmas dinner here? There's more room."

"She'll love it. Our kitchen's a fucking wet dream for a cook like her—did you see how she was staring at the appliances the other day?"

"Yeah, I guess you're right."

He is right. Karen's thrilled about the kitchen, and even more thrilled that Mom's coming, since Mom's been steadfastly refusing to leave Baltimore each December for the six years Karen and Casey have lived here.

"So it takes you coming out to get her here for the holidays," she says, laughing. "Good to know. Does this mean we can't have turkey, or are you willing to let your vegetarian principles slide for once?" We talk about some options for dinner, and she reassures me about Mom, tells me she'll invite Mom to stay with her and Casey if things get too crazy.

The holidays go the way holidays are supposed to go—celebration, family, presents, and lots of food. There are definitely a few tense moments here or there, but for the most part everyone gets along fine, even Billie and Casey. The holidays usually bring out the worst in my dreams, but I only have nightmares a couple nights, and they aren't nearly as bad as they usually are. It's actually the best Christmas I can remember, although any holiday I don't end up throwing up in the kitchen sink is better than most. I think the combination of a different locale, not as many Bayliss relatives, and being with Bill is responsible.

The days past quickly, and before I know it my mother's gone home, then Billie, and we've all survived the time together with our sanity intact.

It helps that Bill and I meditate together every day. I can't quite believe we're doing it, but we are. He's settled into it like he's been doing it for years, and I've settled into it with him, although I'm not always pleased with the thoughts and feelings that come up. It used to be that I gained some equanimity when I meditated—actively sought it, but it seemed to come fairly easily. Now, equanimity is the last thing I feel when I get up from my cushions. Still, Bill and I have some good conversations, and he says it's helping him with his alcoholism.

A few days after New Year's, I catch him looking up Buddhist organizations in Portland. He says, kind of diffidently, obviously trying not to put much emphasis on something he thinks might freak me out, that he was thinking we could visit some sanghas in town, see if any of them feel like a good fit.

I put him off for awhile—it's easy to do when he's spending so much time in LA with the band—but around February we start checking them out. He wants to see the whole range, so we don't limit ourselves to Zen groups, instead checking out Tibetan, Theravadan, Vipassana, Mahayana, Insight, you name it.

We keep sitting, every day, together when he's home, apart when he's not. He's doing it, so I have to do it too. And I have to admit it feels right, even more than it used to.

**IV. Prajna (Wisdom, Insight, Understanding)**

_Bodhisattvas are to be found among thieves and prostitutes and murderers. —Pema Chodron_

I'm almost but not quite late for my shift at Joe's when I walk in, enjoying the rare blue sky. As I head towards the bar, I see a woman sitting there, nursing a brandy, it looks like. I stare for a second—the dark hair is shorter than the last time I saw her, but yeah.

"Julianna?" I say, coming up next to her.

She turns, startled. "Bayliss? What the hell are you doing in Portland?"

"I live here," I answer, smiling at her.

"What? Since when?"

"About two years."

She looks at me, frowning. "I thought I'd met all the detectives in the squad. Why didn't you get in touch with me when I started?"

"I'm not a detective anymore."

"You?" she says skeptically, raising her eyebrows. "You'll always be a detective, Bayliss. It's who you are. You're one of those types."

"No, I'm not."

"Right," she says. "Sure, Bayliss, whatever you say. So what are you up to, then?"

"Boy am I glad to see you, Tim!" Desiree interrupts. "I've got to get going right away if I'm going to make it in time to Ruby's talent show."

"Go, go on, get out of here," I tell her.

"Thanks, Tim. You working tomorrow?" she asks, putting on her coat.

"No, not until next week." I'm not sure why I'm working at all anymore—living with Bill, I certainly don't need the money—but it beats sitting around the house all day, especially when Bill's gone, which he has been again, for a couple weeks this time, doing some more work on the new album. He just got home last night, late.

"Oh, okay. Well, have a good night, and I'll see you next week."

"You too, Desiree."

I turn back to Julianna. "You're working as a bartender?" she asks.

"Yeah, yeah, I am," I reply, moving around behind the bar. "Is that such a shock?"

"No, I suppose not," she says. "It's not as if I haven't seen you serving drinks before."

I nod in acknowledgement, and my phone rings.

"Hello?"

"Hey, do me a favor," Bill says. "Take a good look at the phone in your hand."

I look. "I have yours, huh? Sorry—I must have picked it up by mistake—they were both sitting on the shelf, next to the keys, you know?"

"Yeah I know. So you have mine, and I have yours. Which is going to cause a problem when Trevor calls later on to go over the tour schedule for the twentieth fucking time."

"Right, right. So, what do you want to do about it? I won't be home until late."

"I guess I'll have to come over there so we can make the exchange."

I can hear the smile on his face, and I can't help the smile on mine. I've really missed him these past couple weeks, and I'm happy about any extra time with him, even if it's only a few minutes to exchange phones. "That sounds good. So I'll see you soon?"

"Give me about twenty minutes," he confirms. "If Trevor calls—"

"Yeah, yeah, I'll tell him you'll call him back. I'll see you when you get here." I hang up and catch Julianna staring again.

"Are you living with someone?" she asks incredulously.

"Yeah, I am," I answer.

"You, Tim Bayliss, the man who couldn't stand to have anything of mine in his apartment, even overnight—living with someone."

"That's what I said."

"You actually look happy, Bayliss—is that possible?"

"I am happy," I retort.

She tilts her head back and studies me, perfectly sculpted eyebrows raised. "Well, I'll be damned. I think I actually believe you."

"You should. It's true."

"So how'd you end up in Portland, anyway?"

"My sister and my niece live here. I, uh, I wanted a change, wanted to leave Baltimore—"

"I never figured you for leaving. Then again, I never figured you living with someone, either."

"The thing is, I don't think you and I figured out much of anything about each other."

She considers. "No, probably not."

"You need a refill on that?" I ask, gesturing at her empty glass.

"Sure, fill me up." I do, and she drinks. "You hear from anyone?"

"No, not really. You?"

She nods. "Griscomb and I email some."

"What's the latest?"

"Scheiner died."

"Shit, that's too bad. He was a fixture, you know?"

"Yeah, I know. Unlike me. You know, I was beginning to like it in Baltimore, despite having grown up there. If they hadn't fired me, I might have stuck around."

"You were a great ME, the best."

"Thanks, Bayliss. I know I gave you a hard time there, but you were a good detective, a good cop. Probably the best in the squad."

"No, it's okay. You were right."

"I was? About what?"

"I—I was pretty fucked-up. Didn't know what I wanted, who I was, how to be who I wanted to be, and still be a cop."

"And now that you're not a cop?"

"I know what I want. Who I want to be," I lie. "And it's a little easier to envision getting there than it used to be."

"If you say so."

"Listen, I've got some other customers to take care of—you gonna be around for awhile?"

"Just got a refill, didn't I?"

"Great, great. I'll talk to you in a bit, okay?"

She nods and tips her glass at me.

I get a rush of customers about then, so it's a while before I can get back to Julianna. I drop off some bar mix, and she asks for an iced tea, the normal kind, not Long Island. I get it for her, relieved to see she's stopped the brandy, at least for now.

The door opens, and Bill walks in, and for a moment I'm back in the Waterfront, the first time I saw him. His eyes find me, and he smiles. I lift the counter and gesture for him to join me.

"Hey," he says, kissing my cheek. He's completely unselfconscious about our relationship, and I've taken my cues from him. My days of hiding my sexuality are over.

So I kiss him back and hand him his phone. "Trevor hasn't called yet."

"Okay," he says, handing me mine, his fingers warm.

"Oh, hey, listen, come here, I want to introduce you to someone. Julianna, this is Bill. Bill, this is Julianna Cox. She used to be the medical examiner in Baltimore, and she's here in Portland now."

"Nice to meet you, Julianna," he says, reaching out a hand, working the Billy Tallent mojo.

"You're Billy Tallent," she says, bemused, shaking his hand. She's an expert at playing it cool, but I can tell from the way those dark eyes widen that she's surprised and impressed. "So you're the one who's cured Bayliss of his brooding?"

"Cured? I don't know about that," he replies, laughing. "I'm trying, is all I know."

"Can you stick around for awhile, or do you have to head out?" I ask.

"No, I'd better get going. See you when you get home?" His expression is just shy of a wink, and I smile back at him, squeezing his shoulder.

"Sure, sure," I tell him, hoping the rest of the shift goes quickly.

"Nice to meet you, Julianna. You should come over, have dinner—you and Tim can catch up. Give us a chance to actually use our kitchen."

I'm not sure that's a good idea, but there's no way to take the invitation back, and Julianna's nodding.

"Yeah, that'd be great. Here, Bayliss, let me give you my card." She grabs it out of her purse, writes another number on the back, and hands it to me. Bill gives me another quick kiss and walks out. Julianna sticks around a few more minutes, but then I see her take out her beeper and make a call on her cell phone. I wonder briefly who got killed in Portland tonight, then go back to serving drinks.

Bill asks me about her the next night, while we're on the sofa eating pizza and watching some stupid movie.

"How long did that chick—what's her name?"

"Dr. Cox. Julianna."

"Right, Julianna. How long did she work with you?"

"A couple years."

"She was good?"

"Yeah. Yeah, she was the best ME I ever worked with. The guy before her, he was a real asswipe. After she left, things were still running a lot better than they ever did before she got there."

"So why are you all twitchy around her?"

"Twitchy? I'm not twitchy."

He looks at me, then laughs out loud. "You fucked her!"

I sigh. "We went out for awhile, yeah."

He smirks. "You fucked her."

"All right, all right, I fucked her."

"So it's awkward? Did she break your heart? Did you break hers?" he teases.

"No, jesus, Bill. We went out for about a month, and then we broke up. It wasn't any big deal."

"Listen, if you're uncomfortable, we don't have to invite her over. You could just lose her card or something."

"I'm not uncomfortable!" I take a breath. He looks at me, waiting. "Okay, okay. See, the thing is, we broke up the morning I met Chris Rawls."

He looks puzzled. "Chris Rawls?"

"Didn't I ever tell you about him?" I ask. I know I haven't talked much about my life in Homicide—I prefer to keep that part of my past boxed up and put away—but I thought I'd told him about Chris.

"I don't think so."

"He owns a restaurant where we found a body, in the dumpster. It was a hate crime, gay bashing. He, uh, Chris, that is, after we wrapped up the case, he asked me out. On a date."

"Yeah?" His tone clearly indicates, 'so what?'

I shake my head. "Sometimes I forget what you don't know already."

"What the fuck are you talking about?"

"Chris Rawls was the first man I ever dated. The first man I slept with."

"Oh." He looks at me a minute longer. "Oh, okay. Shit, I never realized—how old were you?"

"Thirty-six," I say, wondering, not for the first time, why I fought it for so long.

"Jesus. So, what, you're afraid she thinks she was the last straw, that she drove you off to the dark side?" he asks with a grin.

I smile back at him. "Something like that, I guess."

"Well, all I know is, her loss is my gain." He leans over and kisses me. "Come on to bed and show me what this Chris Rawls taught you."

"Who needs a bed?" I growl, pushing him over and falling on top of him. He laughs again and starts working his hands under my shirt, and we both forget all about Julianna Cox.

She drops by the bar a couple more times when I'm there, and each time we make small talk, but neither one of us brings up her coming over for dinner. She comes through the door one afternoon when Bill and I are walking out, though, and this time Bill makes it official, inviting her over for dinner on my next night off.

I've been having more nightmares lately. Most of them have been about Luke Ryland, although Adena Watson, Frank's stroke, my uncle, and getting shot have all made appearances as well. Bill usually wakes up when I have them, wakes up and asks me about them, and sometimes I tell him the truth. Most times I lie and tell him I can't remember.

I know he knows there's something going on, and I'm amazed at his patience, his acceptance that I'm hiding something from him, his conviction that I'll tell him when I'm ready, and we'll go from here. Sometimes I even find myself believing it, as he does—believing I'll calmly confess a murder to him, he'll tell me it's okay, and that will be that. Sometimes I think I've already told him. I've almost told him so many times.

I watch him, watch him sleeping, watch him when he's watching hockey, when he's meditating, when he's making love to me, and I know I can't tell him. I can't. I want to—want to believe the fantasy, that he'd be okay with it, that we'd go on as we have been—but I know better. He'd leave; I know he would, or ask me to. And I'm not strong enough to survive that, not yet.

Sometimes, when we're meditating, I forget about all of it for a while. We've visited quite a few groups in town, and Bill's found a sangha he seems to like, although I'm not sure it's right for me. It's a Zen/Mahayana/Engaged Buddhist sangha, less structured than I'm used to. It's more open, more welcoming, but I'm not sure I'm ready for that—I'm more comfortable with silence, full prostration, chanting in Japanese, and definitely no "hugging meditation." Buddhism, for me, is an austere practice, a sangha merely a gathering of mostly anonymous practitioners. Maybe if I'd been attending a sangha like Bill's when I started meditating, I'd feel different; who knows.

I've taken to attending the Zen Center, and Bill comes with me a lot, just like I try to go with him to his group. The two sanghas meet on different nights, so it works out okay. In any case, it's become a routine part of our life together, strange as that sounds—a rock star and a former cop, meditating every day. Bill jokes that Tricycle should do a feature on us, says it'd be better than the usual press he gets. He's probably right, but I'm glad that part of our life remains private.

Our relationship has remained out of the press, too, more from luck than anything else. No one's asked Bill about it, and he hasn't volunteered the information, although I think it's fairly common knowledge here in Portland. I know some reporter's going to ask him one of these days, and I know he's going to answer honestly. I tell myself it won't be that bad, that I should take my cues from him.

———-

The night Julianna comes over, the two of us manage to put together a halfway decent meal with only a few phone calls to my sister. She shows up only a few minutes late, and I heave a sigh of relief when I realize she's brought along a chocolate cake from Ja'Civa, not a bottle of wine.

At first the conversation centers on Bill, Jenifur, the tour. She's doing a good job of hiding it, but I think she's a little star-struck. She relaxes a little during dinner, but vetoes any discussion of her life until after dessert, ignoring Bill's protests that he's not going to be grossed out, that he can take anything she dishes out. She and I share a knowing smile across the table at that; Bill catches it and starts complaining that we're "fucking coddling" him.

So after dessert, we stop coddling. It starts off as a joke—see who can go further to disgust Bill—but then it turns out Julianna has an ulterior motive.

"I'm writing a book," she says. "Remember when I won that award at the Medical Examiners Conference in Baltimore, a couple months before I left? I was entertaining some of the other MEs at dinner with the story of that jumper Munch and Kellerman caught, the one that got shot on his way down, remember, Bayliss?"

"Was that the one that ended up getting killed by his own father?"

"That one, yeah," she confirms. "Anyway, I guess they found it entertaining. I heard from this guy, must have been a year or two later, who'd heard the story third or fourth hand and was convinced that my memoirs were a sure bestseller. Took him a while longer to convince me, but eventually he did. The advance he got me didn't hurt," she adds wryly.

"A book, huh?" I ask. "That's great, Julianna, really. Congratulations."

"Thanks, Bayliss." She takes a sip of her coffee. "I actually wanted to talk to you about some of the cases you and I worked on back in Baltimore, get your perspective. That is, if you don't mind more shop talk, Bill."

"Nah, I'm fine," he says, smiling. "Tim doesn't talk about those days much, so I'm all ears—might learn something new about him, you know?"

"You might," Julianna says, glancing from one of us to the other, pushing her hair back behind her ear.

"Then again, you might be bored stiff, no pun intended," I interject. He just laughs, and I give up, give in, ask Julianna if she had any case in particular in mind. She pulls out a notebook and starts interrogating me like she's the detective—not the first time she's pulled something like that, but the first time she's pulled it on me, and I call her on it. She smiles, and it turns into a verbal give and take, the kind of fencing match I haven't engaged in in years. Not since I left the squad. Not since Frank left.

I'm actually enjoying the conversation until she brings up Tonya Thompson. Bill picks up on my discomfort right away, but not Julianna. Maybe she wouldn't have made such a good detective after all. Eventually she notices my responses have shortened and changes the subject, then stretches, thanks us for our hospitality, and leaves. As we're walking her to the door, she invites us to her place for dinner the following weekend. I make myself accept the invitation, quickly, before I can talk myself out of it.

I dream of Tonya and Janelle and Adena that night, their faces like angels, their bodies broken and still. Bill sleeps through it this time, and eventually I get back to sleep. I have disjointed dreams of cases throughout the week, but no more nightmares.

———-

I work the lunch shift on Saturday. As soon as I get home, I change into sweats and go for a long run, taking perverse pleasure in the grey drizzle and the ache in my thighs and back. By the time I get out of the shower, we're running late, but at least I feel fairly calm. We end up going out to eat, then returning to Julianna's for coffee, dessert, and more discussion of cases from our days in Baltimore. She asks about some from before she started, like Jerry Uba and William Mariner, and then we talk about Bolander, Felton, Russert, and Crosetti, the detectives she never knew, although it turns out she met Bolander and Russert when Gee was killed. She starts to talk more about Gee, then drops it after looking at my face. Bill looks at me, too, then changes the subject to hockey.

I dream about Ryland again that night, but when I wake up and look at Bill, sleeping next to me, I'm able to go back to sleep.

The next day, Bill and I are drinking coffee, sitting on the sofa, watching the rain fall, and he starts talking to me, kind of rambling—I think he's trying to let me know that it's okay to tell him whatever's going on, but he doesn't want to spook me.

"I'll never forget the first time I saw you, standing behind the bar, drinking that beer, looking so fucking sad," he says, glancing at me briefly, then continuing to talk, looking down at his hands. "I'd never—you were the hottest thing I'd ever seen. I'd never wanted someone so much, just instantly, the minute you looked up when I opened the door." He takes a drink of his coffee.

"It wasn't like it was for you, not for me," he starts again. "With men, I mean," he explains. "I pretty much always knew. And Joe—he wasn't—he was always fighting it, I think. So, for him, I tried to, I, uh, with women, but it was never about women for me. Still, after he died, I didn't do much about it—never really did, other than going to a few bars those years I was in LA. It was like this abstract thing, that I was a fag, basically, that I knew that, but I didn't feel any need to act on it, because of everything with Joe. And that's the way it was, until I saw you."

He looks at me again, his expression warm and affectionate. I smile and put my arm around him, and he leans into me.

"I told myself later I was nuts, it couldn't have been as good as I remembered," he says, and I nod in recognition. "Then I'd think back on that conversation in the kitchen, when you told me about shooting the homeless guy, about not being able to be a Buddhist anymore, and I'd think, jesus, even if I did run into you again, you were one seriously fucked-up individual, and that was the last thing I needed." He gives me a wry smile. "Been there, done that, got the fucking t-shirt, you know?"

"Yeah, I know," I tell him. "I'm sorry."

"Yeah, I know you are, but what I'm trying to tell you is, it's not like I went into this blind. I knew you were fucked-up; you knew I was fucked-up. I fell in love with that fucked-up former cop—you being a mess is part of why I love you, because I'm a freak, whatever. And you fell for a fucked-up alcoholic punk, so I guess we're even." He puts his coffee down and looks at me, his expression serious. "So whatever is going on, whatever's giving you all these nightmares, we can work through it. And whenever you're ready to talk about it, I'll be ready to listen."

"There's nothing going on, Bill. Talking with Julianna brought up some memories, and I had some nightmares. I've had nightmares my whole life."

"Okay, okay," he says, "If you're sure that's all it is."

"I'm sure."

I don't think he believes me, but he lets it go. Again.

Julianna stops by the bar a few days later and asks me to lunch the next day. Without Bill there, we start talking cases before our food even arrives. At first it's fine—we talk about Alex Clifton, Frank's struggles when Ed Danvers' fiancee was killed, dealing with crazies like Nelson Broyles. We talk about some cases that went wrong—the Brierre murder, the road rage case that got her fired, the suicides of Burundi Robinson's followers.

She asks me if there were any interesting cases after she left. I shrug and talk a little bit about Dr. Turner, ask her how she feels about assisted suicide, hospice, all that. Turns out her dad was a hospice patient for awhile before he died; I mention that my uncle George was as well, without going into any detail. She asks me what really went down with the Mahoney organization, how I got shot, and I tell her, not everything, but enough. We spend a few minutes talking about what it was like once Frank left.

"I always thought the reason you and I could never work was that you were in love with Frank," she says, and I look at her, considering.

"Yeah, I guess I was," I admit. "But this thing with Bill, it's better. It's real. With Frank, it was never real—I always knew it would never happen, so it was safe. Bill's not safe, but that's okay—it's still better, better than I ever thought it could be."

"Yeah, I can see that," she says with a smile. "He seems like he's good for you."

"He is," I answer, smiling back.

I figure we're about done, but she asks if I have time to talk about one more case.

"Uh, yeah, I guess," I respond.

"What was the deal with that Luke Ryland guy?" she asks casually.

"What?"

"Luke Ryland. He killed women on the internet or something, right? I heard he got off through some screw-up and then ended up dead himself, is that right?"

I manage to answer her, although I'm not sure what I say, and then I get out of there as quickly as I can, out into the sunshine of a spring day, away from her, away from all of it. As soon as I get home, I grab my gear and go for a long run, coming home covered in sweat and mud from running through the puddles. After a shower and dinner, I grab Bill. I start kissing him and tell him I want him to fuck me to next Tuesday. He laughs, kisses me back, and pulls me after him to the loft. Minutes later all I'm aware of is the feel of his lips, the taste of his skin, the heat of his cock against my belly.

After he fucks me, after we wait a while and I fuck him, I fall asleep, exhausted.

I dream of Ryland, of how he looked when I pulled out the gun, how he laughed, how he stopped laughing when I pulled the trigger. Bill wakes and asks me about it, but I just tell him it was a nightmare, and he accepts my explanation and sleepily pulls me back into his arms. I lie there awake for an hour or two before I give up and go for another run.

I don't see Julianna again for a couple weeks, and then only in passing, but I dream of Ryland practically every night. Bill leaves again for a few weeks on tour, and I try meditating, running mile after mile, staying up all night. Nothing works. He finally comes home, and we make love, and I sleep well that night, and I think maybe it's over, even though I know better.

The next night, I dream of Ryland again. This time I get up, as quietly as I can, and go out to the studio. I sit there until the sun rises, and I'm back downstairs and making breakfast before Bill wakes. I catch him looking at me, but when I kiss his cheek and tell him I love him, he just kisses me back without a word.

One night, a week or so later, I wake up when Bill says my name. He sits up and turns on the light, and I turn to rest my head on his thigh. He starts running his fingers through my hair.

"This is the third night in a row," he says mildly. "What are you dreaming about, Tim?"

"Luke Ryland," I answer, weary of lying, unsure what else I may tell him, but unable to keep my dreams secret any longer.

"Luke Ryland," he repeats, yawning. "Which one is he again?"

"Was. He was the internet killer."

"Right, the internet killer," he says. "The one who used your website. That's who you've been dreaming of, these past few weeks?"

"Yeah."

He's silent for a few minutes, although he keeps combing through my hair and shows no interest in turning off the light. "You said he got off, right?" he asks eventually.

I nod, my stubble catching in the hairs on his leg.

"And then someone killed him."

I nod again.

"They never caught the guy?"

"No," I answer thickly. I clear my throat. "No, they never caught him."

His hand stops its motion for a minute, then resumes its slow movement. Another few minutes pass.

"You know who shot him," he says quietly.

I nod. "Yeah, I know," I murmur, waiting for the inevitable question, focusing on the warmth of his hand, the gentle pressure of his fingers.

"Was it you? Did you kill him?"

I nod slowly, my eyes burning; terrified, relieved.

"You shot him," Bill says, a tiny hitch in his voice, barely there.

I nod again, waiting. He doesn't say anything for another minute. His fingers are still in my hair, slowly stroking. I don't understand, but I'll stay where I am as long as he'll let me.

"And that's it?" he asks eventually. "Nothing else, no more dark secrets? No other—no other—"

"No other murders. And no more secrets."

His hand stops, then starts again.

"You'd fucking better not be lying."

"I'm not lying, Bill." I try to get up the courage to sit up and look at him, but I can't, not yet. "I can move out tomorrow—"

"No, dammit, I don't want you to move out. Fuck, Tim—"

He goes silent again, his fingers still, and I can feel the tension in his thighs. I lift my head and push myself up. I still can't look at him, until he grabs my chin and forces me, staring into my eyes.

"You really did this? You really killed this fucker Ryland?"

"Yes," I answer, wishing I could lie, wishing I'd just kept my mouth shut, but it's too late now.

"Why?"

Frank always said the why didn't matter.

"Because he was a predator. He preyed on women, and he wasn't going to stop. Fuck, Bill, he almost beat us the first time. He wasn't going to get caught again, not before he'd killed a lot more women. And he was moving to New Orleans—he told me so."

"Why did you kill him, Tim?" he asks again, his voice hard.

"I just told you—"

"I know what you just told me," he interrupts. "Why did you kill him?"

I look down for a minute, then meet his steady gaze. "I didn't know what else to do."

He nods slowly. "Anyone else know?"

"I told Frank. Confessed to him, after we caught Gee's killer. And he told Lewis, who was primary."

"You confessed to the detective investigating the murder?" he asks, sitting up straighter. "What, they couldn't convict you, you got off, what the fuck happened?" The relief in his voice is unmistakable, and I wish that I'd just kept my mouth shut.

"I didn't confess to Lewis, I confessed to Frank. Frank's not a cop anymore, so the confession wasn't admissible. Frank told Lewis, not me. Lewis didn't want to pursue it."

"Didn't want to pursue it?" He snorts. "Never thought I'd be grateful for that brothers in blue bullshit. But that means—fuck, Tim, that means the case is still open, right? This could—you could still be arrested and charged? Pembleton could go to someone, or Lewis could change his mind. You could go to jail."

I wince, but it's not like I can argue with him. "I don't think that'll happen. They don't have any evidence, it's a cold case, and there are plenty of new murders keeping Lewis busy."

He's still looking at me, and he sees—I don't know what he sees. "There something else you aren't telling me?" he asks abruptly.

"What? No—" and then I realize there is. And if his expression is any indication, so does he.

"Goddammit, I thought you said there wasn't anything else—" he says harshly.

"No, it's not—fuck, Bill, it's not anything like that."

"So what is it?"

I take a deep breath, determined to come completely clean, to leave nothing unsaid. It's the only way. It has to be. He hasn't pushed me away, not yet. He said he didn't want me to move out.

"The night I killed him, I almost—I wasn't sure what I was going to do, but I came pretty close—" I take another breath, then let it out. "When I first told Frank, he—he didn't want to take me in. Said he couldn't do that. So I told him I'd eat my gun if he didn't."

He didn't pull away a few minutes ago, when I admitted what I did, but he pulls away now. He backs off a few inches and stares at me.

"You told him you'd kill yourself if he didn't arrest you?"

"Uh, yeah." I swallow. "Yeah. The thing is, Frank couldn't arrest me, not officially, but he could bring me in, get the process started. And I—I didn't want anyone else to do that." I take another breath. "And, Bill—I don't want to hide anything from you, not anymore. I knew what it would mean, going to prison. I'm—I was a cop. A detective, someone who put a lot of people away. I didn't expect to last long once I got there." Time for one last confession, one I never would have made to Frank. "And even before that, I thought about it."

He pulls a little further away. "Exactly how long have you had this fucking death wish, Tim?" he asks harshly.

"I don't, not anymore, I swear," I tell him, but I can tell he's not convinced.

"Even pretending I believe you, which I don't, that doesn't answer the question," he says. "How long have you wanted to kill yourself?"

I shrug, defeated. "I don't know," I answer quietly. "A long time, I think."

"A long time," he murmurs, then shakes his head. "No wonder you got shot, you asshole. You done anything about this?"

"What, see a therapist?"

"Yeah."

"No. Well, they made me see the department shrink after I got shot, and after I shot Larry Moss, but that was just a couple visits."

He rolls his eyes.

"What?" he says to my look.

"You think I should get therapy? You, the man who doesn't believe in AA?" I ask.

"The man who already had someone he loved blow his fucking brains out, you stupid fucking asshole."

"I'm not Joe," I remind him.

"Fuck you," he says, turning away from me, sitting on the edge of the bed.

"I'm sorry I didn't tell you, Bill. I was—shit, I thought you'd leave me."

He turns to face me again. "Yeah, I'm sure you did, you fucking felcher. You didn't leave me when I got shitfaced."

"That was different. I _killed_ someone, Bill. I committed murder."

"You think I'm fucking jumping for joy here? This does not make me happy, Tim, not at all. I knew you were screwy when I met you, from killing that homeless guy, but this—" He looks at the wall again. "And I don't think you did it for the reasons you said."

"What are you, some sort of expert?" I retort. "I executed him. By all rights I should be in prison right now."

"Except, as you just fucking admitted to me, if you'd gone to prison you'd be dead," he snaps. "So excuse me for caring more about you than this Luke Ryland fucker!"

He gets out of bed and starts pacing. "I don't know, maybe I should just leave. This has disaster written all over it, between my drinking and your fucking self-destructive bullshit. You think I was a mess last November, you should see what I'd be like if I had to clean up after your fucking suicide."

"What? I'm not going to kill myself, Bill!"

"You say that now, but who knows? You could go off the deep end again. I could start drinking again and drive you off the fucking deep end, for fuck's sake." He stops for a second and looks at me, then starts pacing again. "Jesus, Tim, I knew you were hiding something, but I never suspected it was this bad."

"I'm sorry," I say, looking for my boxers. "I'll sleep in the guest house tonight, and tomorrow I'll pack up my things. I'm sure I can stay with Karen and Casey."

He heads back to the bed, furious. "Did I say I wanted you to leave? Did I not tell you two minutes ago I wanted you to stay? You're not getting off that easily, Timothy. I don't know what we're going to do about this fucking mess, but your leaving is not one of the options, understand me?"

"Okay, okay, I'm not leaving," I say, confused. And hopeful. And scared shitless.

"No, you're fucking not," he retorts, pacing again. He stops and stares at me. "This coming back to get us? From what you've told me, Frank Pembleton is not someone who gives up. He's not gonna come after you? I know you what you said, but Lewis isn't going to have a change of heart and decide to arrest you after all?"

"No," I say, as firmly as I can manage. "Frank's given up on it. He's given up on me. And Meldrick, he wouldn't do that, not to another cop, not to me, not for a scumbag like Luke Ryland."

"Okay, fine, good, if you say so," he mutters. "Fuck, I wish I had a cigarette. Or a beer." He holds up a hand before I can say anything. "Don't say it. I'm not heading off to a bar, am I? No. I'm not drinking, and you're not shooting anyone, not right now."

I can't help a snort at that, and he turns, the corner of his mouth crooked up, frustration and sadness in his eyes. Neither one of us says anything for a minute, and then he turns away.

"I've got to go," he says abruptly, getting out of bed. "I need some air. Think I'll take a walk."

"A walk? Bill, it's 4 o'clock in the morning!" And it's probably raining. It's always fucking raining. At least the bars are closed.

"I know what time it is, dickhead," he says, pulling on some clothes. "But I'm sure as hell not getting back to sleep anytime soon—are you?"

"No," I admit. "But don't you think we should keep talking about this?"

"No, I don't," he says. "I don't think I _can_ talk about it anymore, not now. I just need some time alone—I'm not going to find some all-night liquor store, and I'm not going to leave and never come back. I just need some time alone. Might not be a bad thing for you, either." He finishes dressing and looks at me briefly, meeting my eyes. "I'll be back, Tim." Then he heads down the stairs. I hear the beeps from the security system, then the door, then silence.

After a minute I turn out the light and lay back on the bed, knowing I'll never sleep. I give up after a while and go down to the library in my boxers and t-shirt. I look through the shelves and pull out a book almost at random, a Buddhist one that Bill must have bought. I sit down in the chair and start reading.

**V. Virya (Perseverance)**

_The pith instruction is, Stay. . . stay . . . just stay. —Pema Chodron_

I'm not sure how much time has passed, or how much of the book I've read, much less absorbed, but it's starting to get light outside when I decide maybe meditation will help. I don't feel like going back upstairs to get dressed, so I just grab a coat and stick my bare feet in my running shoes for the short trip to the studio. I forget about the fact I'll have to go up the stairs outside to get to the studio, and of course it's raining, so by the time I get there I'm soaked. Running my hands through my hair to get the excess moisture out, I kick off my shoes, take off the wet coat, bow, and enter the room.

I force myself to settle in, counting my breaths, noting that they're rapid, a little harsh, trying to just let them be, let myself breathe, and after a certain amount of time, my breathing slows, gets a little easier. The thoughts and feelings running through my mind are nothing new, nothing surprising—guilt, fear, anger, the memory of shooting Ryland, shooting Larry Moss, wanting to shoot myself. Confessing to Frank. The nightmares I've been having. Telling Bill. I jump up and start walking, unable to sit any longer.

I want to walk fast, but I force myself to keep to the pattern—breathe in, step with my left foot; breathe out, step with my right. Stop and bow to the Buddha with each circuit of the room. Keep going, going slowly, breathing, aware of the muscles in my bare feet, the expansion and contraction of my ribs, the chill I feel on my mostly bare skin. Keep going, aware of the thoughts and feelings that run through me. Keep going, and let them come and go. The worry that Bill won't return. Remembering the nightmare that woke me. The fear that someday I will go to prison, no matter what I told him. Remembering before we slept, when we made love, when I eased my way inside him, the noises he made when he came. The love I feel for him. The fear that he'll leave me because of this.

I sit again, wearily, and begin counting my breaths once more. The first precept of Buddhism, the first of five I accepted when I joined a sangha in Baltimore, the five I vowed to keep at my first Buddhist retreat a few months later, is not killing. I broke that precept not once, but twice. That the first time was self defense doesn't matter, or at least I always thought that, no matter what Bill or other people told me. The second time—it's done, though. There's nothing I can do to take it back. I wish I could—it took me a long time to admit that, but now I know it's true, that if I had it to do over again, I'd find some other way—but I can't.

Eventually, I hear the door open. Bill doesn't say a word, just bows and sits down next to me. After a few minutes I can feel his gaze on me. Then I feel his hand, warm and callused, on my shoulder, and realize I've fallen asleep.

"Come on," he says. "You're freezing. Let's go back."

He doesn't touch me again, just wordlessly leads me back to the house and tells me to dry off while he makes some coffee. I put on jeans and a sweatshirt, figuring I might as well get dressed—I've got the early shift at the bar today; Keisha always tries to give me the lunch shift when Bill's in town, and evenings when he's in LA.

He's sure to be headed back to California soon. I wonder if he'll come back.

Once the coffee's done, the two of us sitting in the living room, just like a normal morning, I start talking.

"I was surprised, the way Frank reacted," I say. "I thought, as soon as he understood, he'd be ready to march me right in. But he'd changed."

"You were surprised your partner of, what, six years, didn't immediately arrest you? Jesus, he sounds like an arrogant fuck."

"Arrogant, yeah, that's Frank," I acknowledge. "But I guess it did make a difference to him, my taking that bullet. Or something. The thing is, I think he could tell—I told him I was sure, that I knew in my heart I'd done the right thing, killing Ryland, but I was lying. And Frank, he always knew when I was lying. Couldn't tell what I was hiding from him, but I couldn't lie to him. He always knew. Frank, he has an instinct for the truth.

"I think I knew, too, knew all along, but I was better at lying to myself than to anyone else. I knew it was wrong, knew I belonged in prison, and knew Frank would take me in. Turned out I was wrong about the last one—had to force him into it."

"What changed your mind?" Bill asks quietly. "About going to prison, I mean. Why did you change your mind?"

"I wanted to go to the funeral," I say, and bark out a laugh. "See, if Gee were still alive, I'd be—well, I might be dead, or I'd be in Jessup. But when I heard he was dead, I wanted to go to the funeral, so I shut the fuck up."

"I'm glad you did."

"Yeah," I say, looking at him. "So am I."

He smiles sadly, then yawns. "I'm going back to bed. You coming?"

I shake my head. "I've got work in a couple hours."

"Okay," he says. "See you when you get home." He doesn't come over towards me, just turns and heads for the stairs. I watch him climb up to the loft, then put down my coffee and head for the shower.

I struggle through my shift; fortunately Keisha's not there, because she'd certainly ask me what was wrong. Bill calls in the middle of the lunch rush and says he has to go to LA, that something came up with the band. He says he'll be back tomorrow night.

He calls the next day and says it'll be a few more days; a couple days after that, he says it'll be a week. Every day he's gone, I'm convinced he's gone for good. Every day, I run. Every night, when I finally get to sleep, I have nightmares. Every time the phone rings, I think, that's him, calling to say he's staying in California.

He doesn't call much at all. When he does, he sounds rushed, talks about recording studios and meetings with the label. And maybe that's what's really going on. That's what I want to believe, but every detective instinct I have says otherwise.

———-

I trip over a beer bottle and pull a muscle on my run, fortunately when I'm pretty close to home. At least the sun is trying to break through the clouds. I head, limping, straight into the shower, dropping my clothes on the bathroom floor. I'm rinsing my hair when I feel cool air. I open my eyes just in time to see Bill before he's there, kissing me passionately, hands roaming my body, his erection pressed up against my thigh. It feels like he gets us both off before I even know what's happening—not that I mind. I'm just glad he's home.

I almost call in sick for my shift, but he tells me to go on in, that he's got some phone calls to make, publicity shit, some interviews, that sort of thing. "I'm not going anywhere, Tim," he says. "I don't have to be back in LA for a couple weeks. I'll see you when you get back from work."

When I get home, he's asleep. He wakes up when I join him in bed, says he thinks he might have picked up a bug on the plane. So I kiss his forehead, which feels cool and dry, and tell him to go back to sleep. Despite the omnipresent worry at the back of my mind, I sleep better than I have in weeks.

The next few days make it clear that everything's changed.

He doesn't make any more pretense of being sick, but he barely touches me, barely interacts. When he's home, he's silent and still and unreachable, except on those rare occasions where he reaches for me, and even then, it's different. We have sex infrequently, especially compared to how it used to be. And I can't call it making love, not what we're doing, it's too fast, too much, like he holds himself back as long as he can and then explodes, taking me with him. And I can't talk to him about it.

I can't talk to him about it. If I ask him what's wrong, he says, "Nothing," and his voice—I can't say anything else, because there's no emotion in his voice, nothing I can get to, no leverage I can use. It's like being in the Box with a suspect, but not being able to get into his head. Only it's worse. It's worse than the Araber, worse than when Frank couldn't get Gordon Pratt. Because it's Bill, and it's starting to feel like he's already gone.

For a while, it's enough that he's there, that he still shares my bed, that he comes back from his frequent trips to LA. Or so I keep telling myself. It gets harder and harder to ignore the tight feeling in my chest when he looks anywhere but in my eyes, when he wakes up in my arms and immediately pulls away.

———-

It's been a week and a half since the last time we had sex. I see the tightness in his shoulders, the stiffness in his walk, and after the past six weeks, I know what it means. It still catches me by surprise when he pushes me down on the bed and starts stripping my clothes off.

I go with it for a few minutes—fuck, I want him as much as he wants me, that hasn't changed, could never change—but then I let myself realize how impersonal it's become, and it makes me feel sick. Maybe it doesn't mean anything to him anymore, but it's been something special for me ever since he stayed the night after that first blowjob.

So I've got a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach, and the whole thing feels wrong, but it's hard to keep my head when I can feel his cock against my ass, hear his ragged breathing in my ear.

"Bill," I gasp as his lubed finger works its way into me, "wait, slow down."

"Need to fuck you now," he says, his other hand stroking me mercilessly. I can't help responding to his touch, but I resist the feeling, because this isn't right, it's not us, not who we used to be, anyway.

"Slow down," I say again, "wait," suppressing a moan at the twist of his fingers inside me. He doesn't listen, just starts pressing inside, holding me steady with both hands firm on my hips, and it feels great and it feels terrible, and then he's thrusting, his hands working their way around to my cock again, working in concert to make me to come, knowing exactly where and how to stroke and squeeze to wring my orgasm out of me. He grunts a minute later and comes himself, resting bonelessly on my back for a few seconds, breathing harshly, then pulling out and getting out of the bed, heading downstairs. I hear the water start in the shower a minute later.

I grab some clothes and clean up in the guest bathroom, then go to sit, because I have no idea what else to do. I give up after about ten minutes, because obviously meditation's not the answer, at least not right now—I have to talk to him, have to figure out just what the fuck is going on. Figure out if I should leave, before he does.

I see him through the windows as I come out of the studio. He's sitting on the sofa in his bathrobe, drinking a cup of coffee, staring out at the trees. He glances at me as I come inside, but doesn't say anything until I've gotten my own coffee and joined him on the sofa, the two of us sitting at opposite ends, not touching, barely looking at each other, the tension between us undeniable. Finally, just as I'm opening my mouth, not sure what's going to come out of it, he speaks.

"I'm sorry."

"Bill—"

"I said I'm sorry," he snaps.

"What the fuck is going on with you? What's wrong?"

"What's wrong?" he asks harshly. "I'm in love with a fucking suicidal vigilante! Excuse me if that's a little much to deal with sometimes!"

I stare at him, bewildered.

"I'm not suicidal, Bill," I say eventually. "How many times do I have to tell you that?"

"Until I believe it. You're not now, maybe, but tell me this—what happens if I leave you?"

"If the only reason you're staying is because you think I'll kill myself if you leave, then I guess I'll save you the trouble and start packing my stuff," I retort, stunned. "Jesus, Bill."

"Answer the question, asshole—and don't fucking lie to me."

"Joe didn't kill himself because you were leaving. And I'm not Joe."

"Yeah, yeah, you're not Joe, as you keep telling me, but fuck, Tim—" he turns and looks at me, really looks at me, for the first time in weeks. "I don't know how to deal with this. And I don't know how to talk to you about it, not right now. I knew you—fuck, I must have some sort of radar for violence and self-destruction, but I never figured on this, and I don't have a fucking clue what to do. And I can't talk to you about it now, I just can't."

"Fine. I'm going for a run," I announce, suddenly desperate to get out of the house, away from this. "Unless you want to go for a walk," I add over my shoulder, glad I'm already in my running gear, wondering if it's just away from the house I want to go, or away from him. Because I'm relieved when he shakes his head, relieved that he's not coming with me.

Miles later, zoned out on the action of my legs, the feel of the pavement, the sweat running down my face, I wonder briefly if I should just go ahead and sign up for a marathon. Maybe I should just keep running until I hit the ocean. Then I turn around and head back home.

I get into the shower without even noticing if he's in the house, put on some clean sweats, drink a couple bottles of water. I hang around the living room for a few more minutes, then walk outside, into the studio, take off my shoes, bow, and sit. I'm unsurprised to find Bill already there.

He gets up and starts walking a few minutes after I sit. For once, I don't join him; I stay seated, breathing, trying to reach that knife's edge of awareness without stumbling over the abyss.

At some point, he sits again. At some point later, I walk, the muscles in my legs loose and easy after my run, reminding me to loosen my shoulders, loosen my neck, unclench my fists, and breathe. He gets up while I'm walking, gets up and stands in front of me, and I almost just go around him, but he's really looking at me, obviously trying to make some sort of contact, so I stop and meet his eyes.

There's something there now. I'm not sure what it is yet, but he's opened up a crack. There's something there, something I can work with. I don't know what's going to happen, but for the first time in weeks, I actually believe there's a chance.

We look at each other for a minute or two. Then he inclines his head a tiny bit and touches my face briefly, gently, and turns to leave. I continue my slow circuit of the room, and then I sit again. When I finally go inside, I see he's made food—a late lunch, an early dinner; I'm not really sure what time it is. He's eaten already, but he's left some for me, so I eat it while he messes with his guitar.

Neither one of us has said a word since I left for my run, hours ago. I go sit on the sofa after I've loaded the dishwasher, and he stands by the window, looking out at the trees. He goes off to the kitchen after a few minutes and makes himself some coffee. He brings me a cup, too, then goes back to staring out the window. I'm just about to grab a magazine off the coffee table when he sits down next to me.

"I'm sorry," he says again.

"So am I," I tell him. "Bill—" I hesitate, but I have to ask, have to know. "Are you leaving? Are you staying in LA?"

He shakes his head slowly. "No. No, I told you, Tim, I'm not leaving. I'm not leaving you."

He looks out the window again, then sighs. "I thought about it," he admits. "I've thought about it a lot. Even took the house off the market." He turns to see how I react to that little confession, and I give a small nod.

"Yeah, I figured," I murmur, but it still hurts to hear him say it.

"In the end, though, I couldn't stay away. I meant what I said last year, Tim—I don't think I could ever leave you."

"Why? Because you're afraid I'd turn into another Joe? Even if it were true, which it isn't, that's not a good enough reason to stay."

"No, that's not it, you freak. I love you," he tells me, his voice full of pain.

"Do you really? Do you really still love me, Bill? Tell me the truth."

He takes my hand, the first time he's done that in I don't know how long. "I am telling you the truth. You scare the shit out of me, as much or more than Joe ever did, but I've never stopped loving you. I don't think I could—fuck, I tried, in LA, and it didn't take."

He looks at me, and I reach out and stroke his face. He closes his eyes and leans into my hand, his expression open and vulnerable, and I want nothing more than to kiss him, but I stop myself.

"Is it enough, Bill?" I ask him. "The thing is, you know I love you, jesus, more than I thought possible, but I don't know—the way it's been, these last few weeks, it's not—I'm not sure it's enough."

"I know," he says. "I know, Tim. I'm sorry."

"Right, right, you're sorry; I'm sorry; we're both sorry. What the fuck do we do to fix it? I can't take it back, Bill. I wish I could. I wish I'd never told you—"

"No," he interrupts. "It was fucking tearing you up, and I could see that, and believe me, I wasn't going to wait around much longer—I was going to ask. I needed to know. And you needed to tell me. Things may be fucked now, but if you hadn't told me, we still would have ended up here eventually. And it could have been even worse than it is now. You know that."

"Maybe," I concede. "Maybe you're right; I don't know. All I know is, I want this to work. I want us to work through this, if we can, and I'm willing to do whatever it takes, if I could only figure out what that was."

"I don't know either. The whole time I was in LA that week after you told me, I kept wondering what the fuck is wrong with me, because the truth is, Tim, I knew there was something wrong, something dangerous about you the first time I met you. I could tell you were depressed, could tell you were fucked-up, but I knew there was more to it than that. And when you admitted you'd shot someone, then said cops didn't do it very often, remember that?"

I nod.

"I could tell you'd killed whoever it was, before you ever told me, I just knew. And knowing you were capable of that, even in self-defense, even as fucked-up as you felt about it, that was a turn-on, Tim," he admits, looking down. "You were a little drunk, and you were totally fucked-up, and it totally turned my crank. And when you talked about it the next morning, when you couldn't even hand me that fucking spoon without wigging out, I knew I was sunk. How fucked-up is that?"

"Pretty fucked-up," I answer with a tiny smile, which he copies with one corner of his mouth, and I once again resist the urge to lean down and kiss him.

"When I saw you after the concert in Portland, I could tell something else had happened, that you were even closer to the edge, and I didn't give a fuck. It just made me want you more. That you're a mess, that you have that darkness in you—" I suppress a shudder at the phrase, so close to what Frank said years ago, "—that's what I fell for. That's what attracted me, right from the beginning, that even though on the surface you seemed like the anti-Joe, I could tell you still had something like him inside you. And I can say all I want to about being different, about letting go of my anger, not wanting to be Bitter Man, but it's still a part of me. And it's a part of you, too."

"I know."

"Do you? Do you really?" he asks desperately. "Because, fuck, Tim, you ought to be fucking furious at me right now. I—earlier—I'm so fucking sorry; I never should have—"

He puts his head in his hands, and I see that they're trembling.

"Bill, no," I tell him, "It wasn't great, but it wasn't—it wasn't anything—"

"It was," he says bitterly. "I practically fucking raped you, acted just like Joe did—"

"No, you didn't," I tell him as forcefully as I can, pulling his hand away and grabbing his chin. "You think I couldn't have stopped you? Bill, I outweigh you by at least 50 pounds, plus I have police training. I may—it may not have been exactly how I wanted it, but I did want it; I wanted _you_. I wasn't drunk, and I wasn't passed out, and you didn't do anything to me like Joe did to you."

"Maybe," he says, refusing to meet my eyes. "Maybe you just went with it, this time. But what about next time?"

"There isn't going to be a next time," I say, then realize I have no idea where that came from.

"What?" He looks at me incredulously. "What do you mean?"

"Not that," I say quickly. "Just, nothing like what just happened can happen again. I think we should probably wait awhile, then take it slowly, you know?"

He shakes his head in disbelief. "I don't know, Tim. I guess we could try—what, exactly?"

"I don't know," I admit.

We sit there on the sofa, and I look outside at the trees. A few minutes go by. A few more minutes, and then he moves close to me, close enough that I can feel the warmth of his thigh against mine.

"This is okay, right?" he asks softly.

"Yeah," I say, putting my arm around him. "This is definitely okay."

He smiles and moves closer, resting against me, and we sit there in silence until it starts getting dark. After I reach over to turn on the lamp, he starts talking again.

"We're both pretty fucked-up, huh?"

"Yeah."

"Like I said, I knew that when I met you."

"You didn't know everything."

"No, I didn't. Neither did you."

"Not at first, no. But you told me—fuck, Bill, you told me everything, and I kept secrets from you."

He shrugs. "I didn't tell you about my little way of celebrating the anniversary of Joe's passing every year," he reminds me. "I kept that from you just as long as I fucking could."

"Yeah, I guess you're right about that," I say, and I smile at him.

He smiles back sadly, placing his hand on my face. "I do love you, Tim. I don't—I want to work this out."

"So do I," I reply, taking his hand in mine.

"You were right in LA, I think," he says.

"What, when I dumped your booze? Damned right I was right."

"That too," he says, smiling again, "but I was thinking about when you said I should get therapy. Only I think we both should go."

"Yeah," I tell him. I sigh. "Maybe you're right. But it's not like I can tell some therapist about—I don't know if patient confidentiality goes that far, you know?"

"With everything else that's happened to the two of us, I think we'd have plenty to talk about besides that," he says quietly, watching my face closely.

I take a breath. I'm no more ready to talk with some stranger about my uncle than I am to tell him about Ryland, but I know what Bill's suggesting makes sense.

"Yeah," I say. "You're right. But let's not, I mean, we need to find someone good."

He nods. "Jana, you know, from the Sunday night sangha? She said something once—I think she knows someone who's a therapist—a Buddhist—a gay, male, Buddhist therapist. She might have even said he specializes in couples counseling and sexual abuse, believe it or not. He'd be a good start."

I laugh, startled. "Uh, yeah, that sounds about perfect. Maybe you should call her, huh?"

"I'll call her tomorrow," he says. "I don't know about you, but I think I'm about talked out for today. I was thinking of putting on the hockey game, ordering a pizza, and hanging out on the couch with the guy I'm apparently not having sex with."

"Sounds good to me," I say, giving in and kissing his temple.

"I am sorry, Tim," he says seriously. "I know I've been a total shit to you these past few weeks."

"Yeah, you have," I answer. "But this was good, talking like this." I take a breath. "I love you."

He leans in and kisses me, then grins. "If you really love me, you'll tell me where the fuck the remote is."

I do, and we watch the game, order some pizza, and pretend everything's back to normal.

———-

A couple days later, I'm sitting awkwardly in a very comfortable chair, talking to a therapist named Michael. I comment on his Buddha statue, he thanks me, and I take a breath in and out. I look at his diploma from the University of Texas. I look at his Buddha statue again. I look out the window.

"So, Tim," he says when I finally look at him, "tell me what brought you here today. What are your expectations?"

I stare at my hands for a minute, then start talking.

It takes me a few minutes to say much of anything, and I talk around the issues for a while, but this guy's good—he could have been a detective, I think. He knows how to ask questions, has a good instinct for what track to take, and even as I'm admiring his technique I'm saying more than I intended, without feeling pressured. Or maybe I'm just ready to talk about it, who knows. By the end of the session he knows about Bill's alcoholism, Joe's suicide, and my uncle.

Michael's good at his job, but I can tell he's surprised by everything that comes up—I guess I'm not his typical client, just coming in because he's fighting with his wife about the mortgage.

Bill doesn't tell me much about his first session with the guy—despite the other night, we're still not talking much, still skittish around each other. We're both nervous about tomorrow, when we'll meet with him together for the first time.

Turns out we have reason to be nervous. He gives us a little time to bring up some issues, but then he lays it on the line.

"Y'all have a lot going for you," he says in his soft drawl. "I think you might just make it, if you're both willing to work, and it seems like you are. You clearly love each other, and that's a big thing, no question. But you both need counseling, more counseling than I can give you."

"What the fuck does that mean?" Bill asks, bristling. I reach out a hand, then draw it back uncertainly.

"It means I'm willing to work with y'all as a couple, if that's what you want," Michael says soothingly. "Or I can work with Tim, here, individually. But both of you need individual counseling, even more than you need it as a couple, and couples counseling won't work unless you're getting individual help from someone else."

"You'll work with me, but not with Bill?" I ask. "Why?"

"I think my expertise suits your needs, Tim, and if you'd feel comfortable working with me, I'd be happy to take you on as a client. But I think Bill would be better off with one of my colleagues, one who specializes in addiction."

"So I have to tell some other stranger all the shit I told you? Fuck that," Bill says hotly.

"No, Bill, it's all right," I tell him, putting a hand on his shoulder, not letting myself pull back this time. Jesus he's tense.

"No, it's not, you asshole, and fuck you too," he growls. "Maybe this is easy for you—"

"No, it's not; jesus, Bill—" I try to calm him down, but he just rolls right over me.

"But it's fucking hard for me, okay?"

"I understand that this isn't what y'all expected to hear," Michael says soothingly, "but I really do believe it's for the best. Of course, you're always welcome to seek a second opinion. You may be able to find another counselor who will see you without having you in separate individual counseling, although I doubt it."

"But you said you'd be willing to see us as a couple, right?" Bill asks.

"If you're both seeing individual counselors, different ones, then yes, I'd be happy to continue counseling you as a couple," he answers.

"But if I wanted to keep seeing you, we'd have to find someone else for couples counseling," I clarify.

"That's right."

"You're pretty comfortable with this guy, eh?" Bill asks me, deflated.

I shrug. "I guess I am. But if you want us to keep seeing him together, I'm willing to find someone else."

We spend the next half hour talking about various possibilities. Michael even calls up a couple people on speakerphone and lets us get an idea what they're like, as much as you can over the phone. We end up agreeing to the basic plan, but not nailing down the specifics. I think we're both feeling pretty beat down by the time we're ready to leave, even though Michael stresses again that he thinks we've got a good foundation for a solid relationship.

"Y'all are both damned strong people. You'd have to be, or you wouldn't have made it through what you've been through with your ability to love, to make a commitment to someone, still intact. I hope you can hear what I'm saying when I tell you how amazing that is."

I look at him, then look over at Bill. He's got his head in his hands, looking through his fingers at Michael.

"Tell me straight, Michael," he says. "You really think we can do this?"

"If you're willing to work at it, yes," he says firmly.

"Okay then," Bill says, getting up. "I'm in. Come on, Tim, let's go home."

The car ride is silent, at least until we're close to home.

"Guess he didn't tell us much we didn't know already," I say eventually.

"What, that we're both fucked in the head?" Bill asks with a laugh.

"Basically, yeah," I answer, smiling, and we're silent again until we pull into the driveway.

"I think I'll sit awhile," Bill says diffidently.

"Yeah," I reply, glancing at him. "Yeah, that's a good idea. Mind if I join you?"

"Nah, that'd be good," he answers. "Later, maybe we can watch hockey and make out on the couch, what do you think?"

"That sounds good," I say, smiling. "That sounds really good."

We get out of the jeep and walk into the house. A few minutes later, we bow and enter the meditation room, Bill moving forward to light the candles and incense.

We sit for twenty, then get up to walk, bowing to each other first.

Walking meditation in a group is often an exercise in frustration for me—or a good practice opportunity, if you want to look at it that way. Even though the Zen sangha I sat with in Baltimore was 95% whitebread Americans like me, I was still the tallest one in the room, every time. I got used to stopping once or twice in every circuit of the room to take a breath in and out, because no matter how slowly I walked, how small my steps, I always ended up almost bumping into the person in front of me.

Bill and I always start out at opposite ends of the room, but it still works out pretty well—usually I'm close to him by the end of twenty minutes, but I'm never in danger of running him over unless we walk for longer than that, and in those instances I can just go around him without worrying I'm disturbing anyone. It's nice. I still have to watch myself when we go to meditate with the Zen group here, or the OI sangha Bill likes, but when it's just the two of us, I can relax into walking meditation better than I ever could before.

After the sit and the walk, I'm feeling a lot better than I did on the drive home. I stand behind him as we finish walking, close enough to smell his hair gel, looking at his hairline, and have to resist the urge to bury my nose behind his ear.

We bow again, but neither one of us moves towards our cushions.

"I'm kinda thinking we skip the second sit; what do you think?" Bill asks quietly.

"Yeah, me too," I answer, and go kneel at the altar to blow out the candles.

He waits for me by the door. We put our shoes on together, then walk back to the house. I put my hand on his shoulder and leave it there, enjoying the way he leans into me instead of moving away.

Once we get inside and get our coats off, he moves towards the living room.

"Wait," I tell him, and he turns back towards me. I reach out and touch his face; he closes his eyes and smiles. I lean down and meet his lips, as gently as I can, and he makes a soft noise and moves closer, his hand coming up to cup my cheek.

We kiss for a few minutes, gentle, slow, sweet, deliberately avoiding any contact beyond our lips and the hand we each have on the other's cheek. Then I open my mouth just enough for my tongue to run along his bottom lip. His mouth opens, he moves closer, and the kiss deepens. We're pressed together now, his arms solid around my back, and he sighs as I move my lips to his neck.

I resist the urge to rock against him and pull his earlobe into my mouth, sucking gently, then letting go.

"Come on, let's take this upstairs," I murmur.

He pulls back just far enough to look up at my face with a half smile. "Yeah?"

"Yeah. Come on."

I follow him up the stairs, but I have to stop him when he starts unbuttoning his shirt.

"No, let me," I tell him, and he lets his hands fall to his sides, then brings them back up to my face, running his fingers over my lips, my cheeks, my nose. He has to lower them again so I can get his shirt off, then raises them up obligingly while I lift his t-shirt over his head.

I gesture towards the bed while I pull off my sweatshirt and take off my jeans and socks. When I look up again I can see him stretched out on top of the covers, jeans still on, just the top button unfastened to give his cock some room. He's breathing deeply, a light sheen of sweat visible on his chest, his eyeing my every move hungrily, his hands clenched in the bedspread.

I get on the bed, on my knees, one on each side of him, and take another minute to look at him. He lets go the bedspread and runs one finger along my collarbone, so lightly I can barely feel it.

I lean down and kiss him again, his forehead, his nose, his eyebrows. His temples, his chin, the corners of his mouth, the angle of his jaw. After every third or fourth kiss, I go back to his lips. His hands are making the same trip over my face as my lips are on his, touching me everywhere, so gently. We move to necks, ears, arms, back to collarbones, and he pulls me on top of him, and we both gasp as our chests touch.

I pull away again for a second and stroke his face. "I love you," I tell him. It feels like I haven't said it in months, even though I said it before we left to see Michael.

"I know," he answers me softly. "I know, Tim. I love you, too."

His hand comes up to cup the back of my head, gently nudging me down into another kiss, a kiss that quickly deepens without ever losing that sweet intensity, never shifting into that wild, hard, mean feeling that was there the last few weeks.

I work my way slowly over his chest and down his belly, then finally open his fly and run my hand gently over his cock, still trapped beneath the grey jersey of his boxer briefs. He moans and moves his hips, and I slowly pull the rest of his clothing off, then throw my boxers impatiently on the floor and finally, finally rest my entire body on his.

We kiss again, deep and slow, and then I start to move against him, watching his face as our cocks find that sweet spot next to each other, watching as he grabs my ass and gets the angle just right, as he squeezes his eyes shut and comes with a low, long, moan, and then I have to close my eyes, feeling the hot slickness between us, riding it out for a few more thrusts before I add my own wet contribution.

I roll onto my side, pulling him with me, unwilling to let go, but not wanting to suffocate him. I look at him again, his cheeks flushed, hair damp, mouth curled in a relaxed smile. He brushes a bead of sweat from my nose.

"Hey," he says, his smile broadening. "That was the most fun I've had in months, how about you?"

"Yeah," I answer with a shaky laugh, "Yeah, that definitely beat anything else I've done lately."

"Good," he says, a little more serious. "That's good."

I push a bit of hair back from his face. "Yeah, it is good," I tell him, hoping he's hearing me. "It was good. Very, very good."

He smiles and rolls onto his back, keeping one hand on the back of my neck. I scoot a little closer, resting my arm on his chest, my nose to his neck, his hand migrating to my shoulder, warm on my sweaty skin as it dries and cools.

"I figure we have a couple choices here," he says after a minute, and I think at first he's going to talk about therapy and open my mouth to shut him up, but then he keeps going and I relax. "We can either get under the covers and take a well-deserved nap, or we can get our asses into the shower."

"I'm guessing you're voting for the nap," I say, nuzzling his neck.

"You got a problem with that?" he asks, turning to kiss my forehead.

"No, no problem," I say. I grab a couple kleenexes to do a quick clean up job, he pulls back the covers, and then we're back in each other's arms. I think I'm asleep about sixty seconds after that.

And when I wake up, when he wakes up, he doesn't move away. He doesn't move away, he moves towards me, and we make love again.

**VI. Shila (The Five Mindfulness Trainings)**

_I vow to abstain from taking life.   
I vow to abstain from taking things not given.   
I vow to abstain from misconduct done in lust.   
I vow to abstain from lying.  
I vow to abstain from intoxicants, taken to induce heedlessness.   
—the Five Precepts, from a dharma talk by Zen Master Wu Bong_

_Aware of the suffering caused by the destruction of life, I am committed to cultivating compassion and learning ways to protect the lives of people, animals, plants, and minerals. I am determined not to kill, not to let others kill, and not to condone any act of killing in the world, in my thinking, and in my way of life.   
—the first of the Five Mindfulness Trainings of the Order of Interbeing_

After that day, things don't exactly go back to what they were before, but they're better. I start seeing Michael regularly, and Bill starts looking for another therapist—a task made more difficult by the fact that Jenifur's ready to start touring again, although he does eventually find one he likes, a woman named Paula. He only has one session with her before he has to leave, but he comes out of it looking—well, looking a little perplexed. I'm not sure if that's good. I think it might be.

He's gone for weeks at a time, and it's not like he can take a therapist along with him. He meets with Paula when he's home, both of us resentful of anything that keeps us apart on those brief days we have together between tour dates. We don't go to couples counseling, having agreed that it makes more sense to wait until the tour's over—but he won't be home again for any extended time for another 6 months.

He buys a spare set of meditation cushions, a bell, and a traveling altar. Every once in a while, when the schedules work out all right, he goes to an OI sangha in whatever town they're touring, but he doesn't do it often—he tells me he's uncomfortable sitting with people he doesn't know, people who tend to spend the dharma discussion sneaking furtive looks at the celebrity in their midst.

As for me, I feel a little uncomfortable going to what I think of as his sangha without him. I still go most weeks, though, whenever I'm not working, and after a while it gets better. Folks ask about Bill every week, want to know how he's doing, but they also ask how I'm doing, and they seem sincere. I'm starting to get used to their way of doing things, getting more comfortable week by week. And the fact that no one at the Zen Center spends much time asking after me or Bill is not lost on me—usually we just meditate, have a short dharma talk, then disperse. I like the safe anonymity, but I have to admit I kind of miss the closeness and camaraderie I feel in the other sangha.

Bill makes quick trips home when he can, and I occasionally fly out to whatever city he's in. We see each other every week or two, most months, but it's not enough. I joke with Michael one day about just quitting my job and joining Bill full time on tour, and, in typical fashion, he asks me about it and makes me actually think about how I'm spending my life these days.

When I moved to Portland, I simply wanted a job, something I could do that would pay me well enough to survive. I didn't know how to do anything but be a cop or bartend, and I knew I couldn't be a cop anymore, so the answer seemed fairly obvious at the time. Michael's careful questions make me realize that what was expedient two and a half years ago might not make any sense anymore. I don't need the money, and I don't really enjoy it. I know Keisha and Joe appreciate my work, but it's not what I want to do, not anymore.

Of course, I don't have a clue what else to do. Tempting as it is to just quit and join Bill on tour, I know that's not the answer either. What I need is something that means something, like working homicides did, without carrying a gun or dealing with grieving families or asshole attorneys or suspects who get off on technicalities.

Yeah, like there are lots of jobs like that out there. Tons of them, and I'm well-qualified for all of them. I try to resign myself to bartending, hoping I can serve drinks mindfully, or something.

Then, during a double shift Friday when I haven't seen Bill in over two weeks, Julianna comes into the bar, the first time I've seen her in a couple months. She's not alone. She's in a slinky black number that shows off her figure and her dark eyes. He's in a designer suit, and he's got his arm around her when they walk into the bar, and I have to make an effort to stop staring, because I have never seen Julianna acting anything like this. With Kellerman, with me, it was all buddy-buddy at the bar with the other cops, then off to someone's place. There were never any dates, never any dinners out or even trips to the movies, never so much as a kiss on the cheek in greeting.

The picture that's presenting itself right now is clearly a date, a night on the town, for a couple of people who are very into each other. I catch myself staring again and smile, looking down at the glass in my hand as Julianna and her date approach the bar.

"Hey, Tim," she says casually, but it's the first time I can remember her calling me anything but Bayliss since we broke up.

I grin at her. "Hey, Julianna, what can I get for you?"

"Red wine, if you please," she says, smiling cockily.

"And for you?" I ask her date politely. He's about 6'2, dark-haired, balding, looks like he's in his late forties, early fifties, but toned. He and Julianna look good together.

"Sam Adams," he answers.

"Oh, sorry, Bayliss, this is Neil, Neil Cohen. Neil, this is Tim Bayliss. He and I used to work together back in Baltimore."

"Nice to meet you, Tim," he says, reaching a hand over the bar to shake mine. "Were you in the coroner's office?"

"What? No, no, I was a detective."

"Bayliss here was the best there was," Julianna says, and she's looking at Neil like she's said something significant.

"Well, I never had Kay's clearance record, but I did okay," I say, embarrassed and a little confused.

"Yeah, but I bet she never had your case load," Julianna points out, and I give her a look. She ignores it.

"He was that good, huh?" Cohen asks her speculatively. There's something going on, but what?

"Far better than any of the detectives here," she confirms. "Makes Rodriguez look like an amateur."

"You're serious," he says, looking at her and then at me. "That's why you wanted to come here?" She nods.

"Hey, anyone want to clue me in here?" I interrupt.

Julianna tilts her head at Neil, and he looks at her for another second, then turns back to me.

"Why'd you stop being a police, Bayliss?" Cohen asks bluntly.

"I'm not sure it's any of your business," I start, but Julianna interrupts.

"I told you about Lieutenant Giardello, Neil," she says. "Bayliss and his old partner solved that case. It was his last case."

"That must have been tough," he acknowledges.

I nod, frowning. "It was."

"Look, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to come off as such an asshole. It's just, I'm wondering why you're working as a bartender if you were such a good detective. In my experience, those kind of police tend to be in it for the duration."

"I was a detective for seven years," I tell him. I hesitate just for a split second, then keep going. "I saw my partner have a stroke in the interrogation room. I saw my lieutenant murdered. I saw other detectives I worked with kill themselves or get killed, got shot myself in a raid. I saw the bosses fuck up six ways to Sunday. I figured I'd seen enough and got out while I still could." Jesus, get me started these days and I just can't stop—must be the therapy or something.

"Fair enough," Cohen acknowledges. "But don't you miss it?"

"Miss it?" I shake my head. "Not really. Knowing I was making a difference, even a little one, sometimes I miss that. This—" I gesture around me, "this isn't exactly right livelihood, but at least it doesn't give me any new nightmares."

"Right livelihood?" Cohen asks.

"Tim's a Buddhist," Julianna tells him.

"A Buddhist cop?" he says. "Aren't Buddhists supposed to be pacifists or something? That must have been damned difficult, or did you start up on this Buddhist kick after you quit?"

"No, I started on 'this Buddhist kick,' as you called it, after I got shot," I tell him bitterly, "and you have no fucking idea. Try Buddhist and bisexual, then tell me again how I should have stayed on the force." I turn away, busying myself with getting their drinks, wishing Bill were home, that I could go home to him right now.

I take a breath before I turn back around and hand them their drinks.

"Hey, listen, I didn't mean anything," Cohen says apologetically. "I can see where you would've—Baltimore's not exactly Portland, and even in Portland there aren't that many cops who are out."

I shrug, trying to let it go. "Yeah, well, it's a bit of a sore subject. Sorry I bit your head off."

"So what do you think, Neil?" Julianna asks. "You ask me, Bayliss is perfect."

"Perfect for what?" I ask suspiciously. "I'm not joining the force again, so if that's what you have in mind, you can just forget it. Carrying a gun and practicing Buddhism don't mix, not for me, not anymore."

"What if you didn't have to carry a gun?" Cohen asks, and I stare at him. "I'm looking for someone to teach some classes at Portland State, in our justice program, and I think Julianna's right—you'd be perfect."

"What sort of classes?" I ask, reluctantly intrigued.

"Upper class seminars, mostly. You could design your own curriculum, if you wanted, or work with one of the old courses we lost when a couple of our instructors retired. Teach interrogation techniques, or how to canvass a neighborhood. How to give good testimony. The kids in this program, they could learn a lot from someone like you. What did you do before you were in homicide?"

"Uh, a couple years patrol, then QRT for five years, then the Mayor's Security detail for a couple more."

"QRT _and_ Homicide? Shit, I'd better not let my friends at the Academy know about you, or I'll never have a chance. Sharpshooter?"

I nod. "But I don't shoot anymore."

"That's a shame," he says, but he doesn't seem too bothered. "Still, I'm surprised you aren't teaching already, with that kind of record."

"It never even occurred to me," I answer honestly.

"You do have a degree?" he asks, and I nod.

"Bachelor's in Criminal Justice, with a minor in drama, from the University of Maryland," I say, and he nods, looking pleased. "Don't I need a graduate degree to teach college?"

"Not with your work experience. If you wanted to pursue graduate work, it'd be nice, but it's not necessary."

"You minored in drama? I guess you always were a bit of a drama queen," Julianna says with a laugh. "You just keep surprising me, Bayliss."

"Hey, hey, how do you think I got to be so good in the Box?" I say with a smile, feeling more than a little lost. I can't believe I never considered teaching. It sounds wonderful. Perfect. And scary as hell—what the fuck do I know about teaching college students? Of course, thinking back on my own college career, it's not like any of the classes I took were of much use once I got out on the streets. It might be nice to teach future cops something they could actually use.

"So tell me, Tim, are you interested? I need someone to start fall semester."

"I don't know. I mean, yeah, I'm interested, I'm definitely interested, but I've never done any teaching—"

"Tell you what," Cohen says, "Here's my card. The program website's on the bottom. Check it out, see what you think, and then give me a call. We can bring you in for an interview, let you sit in on a couple summer session courses, meet the rest of the faculty, see if it's a good match."

"Okay," I say, taking the card. Neil Cohen, MS, Ph.D. Commander, Portland Police Bureau (Ret.). Chair, Administration of Justice Department, Portland State University. Jesus. "Okay, that sounds good. I'll call you next week."

"Great," he says, shaking my hand. "I look forward to it. Come on, Jules, there's a table over there." He drops some money on the counter and steers her away, and I stand there, dumbfounded, for a few seconds. Then I go back to my job, wondering how Keisha will react if I quit.

I call Bill when I get a minute, but he doesn't answer, and after I leave a voice mail I realize he's probably on stage. I think he's in Phoenix, but I'm not sure.

He calls back during a brief rush at the bar, so I don't really have time to talk to him until I get home, late. We're both tired and frustrated at being apart.

"I'm flying home Sunday after the show," he says by way of a greeting.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. Have to be in Boston by 3 on Wednesday, but I figure it's worth it."

"Definitely worth it. That's great news, Bill."

"You said you had some news, too—what's up?"

"Got a line on a new job tonight. Julianna stopped by the bar with her date, and he offered me a job at Portland State—not formally, but he seemed pretty confident the job was mine if I wanted it."

"At the university?"

"Yeah, in the criminal justice program. Well, they call it something else—" I reach for the card. "Administration of Justice, right, that's what they call it. Anyway, this guy's the chair of the department, and a former police, a commander, here in town. And he wants me to teach some seminars on investigative work."

"Seriously? Fuck, Tim, that sounds like a great gig."

"You really think so? You think I could handle teaching?"

"Are you kidding? Those kids won't know what hit 'em. Did you tell him yes?"

"I told him I was interested, yeah. I'm supposed to check out the website, then give him a call to set up an interview."

"Keisha's gonna be crushed, but it'll be good for you."

"Yeah," I say, letting myself believe it. "Yeah, I think it might be."

"You looked at the website yet?"

"I just got home after a double shift, Bill. I'll look at the website tomorrow."

"Email me the url, okay?"

"Sure," I say, yawning. "Tomorrow."

"Asshole. Miss you."

"Yeah, I miss you too. I guess we'd better get some sleep, though, huh?"

He sighs. "Yeah, I've got PR bullshit all day tomorrow. You working?"

"Lunch shift," I confirm.

"Fuck, you do need to get some sleep. I'll call you tomorrow."

"Wish you were coming home tomorrow."

"Yeah, me too. But I'll see you early Tuesday morning. I'll come home and wake you up."

"I'll wait up."

He laughs. "Go to bed, Tim. I'll talk to you tomorrow."

"Good night, Bill."

The best part of every night he's away is talking to him on the phone. The worst is hanging up and trying to get to sleep without him there.

I look at the website before work the next morning, and I call Neil on Monday. We set up an interview for Thursday afternoon, because no job is going to keep me from spending as much time as possible with Bill while he's home.

I skip waiting at home for Bill and go to the airport to pick him up, as a surprise. The smile on his face when he sees me is more than worth any missed sleep. The sounds he makes when I'm inside him are even better.

It's the first time I've done that—fucked him—since I told him about Ryland. And he hasn't fucked me since that time right before we started counseling. We haven't talked about it, and I tell myself there's no reason to bring it up during his brief visit home. But I tell Michael about it after he leaves.

"You need to talk to him," he says, and I know he's right, but I'm too busy trying to figure out what the fuck I'm doing starting a new career as a college professor.

Keisha, Joe, and the rest of the staff throw me a surprise party to congratulate me. "We'll sure miss you, Tim," she tells me, "but this is going to be great. Just remember, we'll come hunt you down if you don't bring Bill over here for dinner every so often, you hear me?"

I promise we won't be strangers, then go home through the cool summer night to an empty house.

I spend the next few weeks trying to get ready to teach. I think I drive the department secretary totally nuts with all the changes I make to the syllabus, but eventually it's done, or as done as it's going to be. I find what looks like a decent enough text—turns out it's a department rule that you have to have a textbook—but I plan on using it just as a starting point. I remember just how useful the supposed classic text was to me when I started in homicide, after all. I talk to Neil about setting up some exercises for the students, trying to give them some practical information and experience, and he responds enthusiastically.

"That's exactly the kind of course we want to offer, Tim," he tells me. "What you've shown me here looks great."

I tell myself not to be nervous as I watch the students file in to the first class. I tell myself I've been through much worse than they could dish out. I tell myself to breathe. I still manage to knock the textbook off the table when I stand up to introduce myself.

There are fourteen students, ten of them male, all of them impossibly young and fresh-faced. I introduce myself, tell them a little about my background as a cop, and ask them to introduce themselves and talk about their career and course goals, which include everything from law school to opening a private detective agency, although the majority plan to be police of some form or another. We go over the syllabus, then spend a little time discussing the text and how real police work differs from anything you can read in a book. The discussion's lively, with a couple of the students asking some hard questions, making me glad I had all those years with Frank as practice.

A couple of the students even stay past the scheduled time and ask me some more general questions about working as a detective. By the time I leave, I'm confident the class is going to at least be interesting for the students, although I'm still dreading having to grade assignments.

At least it's keeping me busy. I can't imagine how people deal with teaching multiple classes, because, as the weeks go by, this one class is taking all my time. I'm loving it, though—loving every minute of it, even when I'm up late grading papers. I usually spend half the class lecturing, going off from whatever the text says and talking about how it relates in the real world. The second half of the class is always interactive—discussion, or splitting them up and having them practice their interview techniques, stuff like that. We'll spend forty-five minutes talking about some case I had in Baltimore, and at the end of class, some of the students always stick around to hear more.

Between that, and seeing Michael, and my practice, I'm surviving okay. Bill comes home for a couple days, a couple weeks after the semester starts, and it's great to see him, but things are still awkward. We wake up the second morning, start messing around, and I tell him I want him to fuck me, and he freezes, then shakes his head and hands me the lube in mute apology. I try to talk to him about it, but he just says he can't, and can't we do something else, because he has to leave in a few hours. So I drop it and stroke his face, start kissing him lightly, and eventually he relaxes enough to get back into what we were doing before. He squeezes in a quick visit with Paula before heading to the airport, and I make him promise to bring it up. He looks pissed about it, but he agrees.

Then he heads off on the last leg of the North American tour. Between his schedule and mine, I won't see him again until it's over, which is another three and a half weeks.

———-

All I can think as I head to sangha is, Bill's coming home tomorrow. He's coming home, and he's going to be home through Christmas at least—the band isn't touring again until they start the European leg in January. I'm hoping that sitting with the sangha, seeing these people (who I have to admit have become my friends), will help me make it through the 16 hours until his plane lands tomorrow morning.

Various people greet me with smiles and bows as I walk in and take my shoes off. Jana gives my shoulder a squeeze as she walks by in her brown jacket. Steven does the same. I manage a smile for both of them, then go to set up my cushions.

A few minutes into the first sit, I hear the door open. I figure it's just a straggler, but when the bell rings to stretch, I turn and see Bill sitting a couple rows behind me. I bite back a gasp, and his eyes crinkle up with his smile as he inclines his head. There's barely time for me to smile back before the bell rings for walking meditation.

I'm beyond distracted during the walking meditation, catching glimpses of Bill as I turn corners, standing across the room from him when we bow at the end. Sitting's not much better, not knowing he's there behind me. I spend half the walking meditation, and most of the sit, trying to will away my inconvenient and embarrassing erection. I eventually hit on the idea of remembering some rather gruesome crime scenes, and that does the trick, but then I have to pull my mind back to my breath. All in all, it's one of the must frustrating attempts at meditation I've ever made, even worse than my early sits.

It does pass, eventually. After we stretch, stand, and bow again, Bill moves his cushion next to mine for the dharma discussion, and we take a second for a brief, one-armed embrace before settling down for tea and discussion.

I keep looking at him during the discussion. I have no idea what anyone says; I am incapable of listening mindfully to anything. I don't think Bill's doing any better, judging from the way he keeps shifting on his cushions. He's spending a lot of time looking at me, too, and every time he catches my eye, he smiles.

Finally, finally, we're standing and bowing again, to each other and the Buddha, and then I'm free to pull him into my arms, almost lifting him off his feet, and murmur into his ear how much I've missed him. I feel his lips on my neck, just for a second, before he pulls back a little.

"Missed you too," he says, putting his hand on my face.

I put my hand up to his and turn my face just enough to kiss the palm, then bringing our hands down together. I don't let go, and neither does he.

"You're here early," I tell him, and I'm smiling so hard I can feel it in my cheeks.

"Yeah," he says, grinning. "A couple interviews got canceled, so I grabbed an early flight, figured I'd surprise you. Surprise," he adds in a deadpan that's totally spoiled by the twinkle in his eyes.

I'm about to tell him about the surprise he's going to get from me once we get home, but I'm interrupted by the first of many people coming up to welcome Bill back to town and back to sangha. Jana is probably the third or fourth person to give us both hugs.

"You must be so glad to have him home, Tim," she tells me. "Bill, we've all missed you, honey; it's so good to see you again. Are you home for good, or for awhile, at least?"

"Yeah, we're not back on tour until January," Bill confirms.

"That's great!" she says. "Does that mean you'll be coming to the retreat?"

"Probably," Bill says, looking at me sideways. "At least, I'm pretty sure I will be. I don't know if Tim will be able to take the time, what with the class he's teaching and all."

I look at him, then answer Jana's questions about how the class is going. It's probably another twenty minutes before we make it out of the room.

"Did you drive?" I ask him as we walk out the door.

"Nah, took a taxi from the airport, stuck my shit in the jeep when I got here," he answers.

"How'd you know I'd be here?"

"I didn't, not for sure. If you weren't, well, I figured I'd just tell the taxi driver to drive me home."

"Good plan," I say, smiling again, "but what if I wasn't home?"

"Then I would have tracked you down," he says, grabbing my shirt and pulling me close for an all too brief kiss. "Come on, let's get the fuck home already."

Once we're in the car and I'm able to focus on something other than how his lips felt against mine, I ask him, "So, you're serious about going to this retreat?"

"Yeah, I am," he says. "You don't have to go, though."

"When is it?"

"Uh, three or four weeks, I think."

"Huh."

"'Huh'?"

"Fall break starts in three and a half weeks."

I can see his grin without even turning to look. Truth is, I'm not sure I'm ready for a Buddhist retreat, much less going to Bill's first Buddhist retreat with him. But if he's going, I'm going, as long as I can work it out with my class.

"You've been to one before, right?"

"A retreat? Yeah, five years ago, in upstate New York."

"What was it like?"

I laugh. "Hard. It was hard. It was a pretty strict Soto retreat, so it was mostly sitting, sitting and Noble Silence and more sitting. My back was killing me—I was barely off disability, just back at work a few weeks. But it was good."

"You think I'm ready?"

I glance at him, surprised by the nervous tone of his voice.

"Yeah, you're ready," I say. "You're more ready than I was. You're probably more ready than I am now, if you want to know the truth. You're really strong in your practice."

"Yeah?" he asks, pleased.

"Yeah."

"You're ready too, you know," he says after a minute. "I know you don't think you are, but you're wrong."

I glance at him again.

"You're ready," he repeats, and he sounds totally confident.

"Okay," I say slowly. "Okay. If it's during fall break, we'll go. All right?"

We're pulling into the driveway, and he's grinning at me, and a few minutes after that we're upstairs, skin to skin, and he fucks me for the first time in months, and it's so damned good I feel like I'm flying.

———-

"Are you sure you're ready for this, Bill?" I ask nervously as we drive up to the retreat center. We've got the windows open, the California sun is shining, and the air is warm, the sky blue where it's not covered in smog. It feels a like we're a million miles from Portland.

I feel his gaze on me. "You sure you are?" he asks mildly. "Listen, I got no problem with five days of meditating and dharma talks and eating vegetarian style."

Looking at him, I remember the last time we were together in sunny southern California, almost a year ago. I never would have guessed I'd be back under these circumstances.

"Don't forget the Noble Silence," I remind Bill, and he grins at me.

"I can do silence, Timmy."

I don't know if he's trying to prove it, but he doesn't say another word as we wait in the registration lines, check in and take the stairs up to our room. The silence ends when we open the door.

"What the fuck? Tim, this isn't—what the fuck kind of a room is this?"

"It's the kind of room you stay in when you go to a Buddhist retreat," I answer reasonably, hiding a smile. "Didn't you read the brochure?"

"You're shitting me, right? You mean we have to stay in a room with _bunk beds_ all week? And there are two sets of them—does that mean we're sharing the room with two other people?"

"That's right. You want top or bottom?" I ask with a grin.

"I'll take the top," he mutters. "And fuck you too. Asshole."

I start laughing. "No, no, see, I did sign us up for a regular room, double occupancy. They must've made a mistake. Let's go back down to registration and straighten this out."

"Fuck yes let's straighten this out," he mutters. "Fucking bunk bed fucking bullshit."

I wisely keep my own silence on the way back to the desk, but I can't help smiling at the pissed off angle of his shoulders as he precedes me down the stairs, to the registration desk, and out to our new room. We unpack quietly, then head to the campus to check things out.

It's the first night, so it's fairly casual, but there is silence during the evening meal. Bill handles it with perfect grace, chewing slowly, bowing to people when they sit down, the whole thing. It's a little awkward for me, because the Zen tradition I studied before believed in eating quickly, not slowly, but I suppose I'll get used to it.

Talking is allowed until evening meditation, but we don't really say much, just go to the bookstore for a half hour and pick up a few things. The evening practice opens with chanting, in Vietnamese and English rather than Japanese, but it's moving in any language, and the monks and nuns look calm, happy, and peaceful as they chant. The opening dharma talk is pretty general, with some nods to the Christians and Jews in the crowd. I glance at Bill now and again; he appears intent on every word.

It's odd, but nice, to walk the half mile back to our room in silence, to brush our teeth and prepare for bed without saying a word aloud. Bill looks at me with an attractive mixture of amusement, concern, and peace. Even though it's hours earlier than we usually retire, I wrap him in my arms and we both fall asleep quickly.

We're both bleary eyed when the alarm goes off at 5:30, but we struggle into our clothes and make our way down to the dharma hall for morning meditation. I look over at him once and realize he's fallen asleep, chin to chest, but he wakes with a start when they ring the bell for walking meditation.

I'm pretty tired that whole first day, and I think Bill is as well. We take a nap after lunch, and the world around me seems a little clearer after that.

The dharma talk is intense. It's about forgiveness, of yourself and others, and it feels like it's directed at me, at me and Bill. It's pretty overwhelming, but I breathe and keep listening, trying to focus on the words.

Afterwards, Bill and I go for a walk. I feel full of peace and joy and love, and I can't keep the smile off my face.

Bill smiles back at me and takes my hand, and we walk slowly together, enjoying the sun breaking through the clouds, the smell of the freshly mown grass.

"I think I'm going to take the Five Mindfulness Trainings," he says after awhile, looking at me sidelong.

"Yeah? Wow, Bill, that's great," I tell him, giving his shoulder a quick squeeze. I breathe in, letting go, breathing out, seeing the lightness in Bill's stride.

We walk for another ten minutes before he speaks again.

"You took them before, right?"

"Yeah. Yeah, I did. Well, the Five Precepts. Same concepts, but they were worded differently."

I stop to look at some late-blooming wildflowers, no longer at peace. Five years ago I'd vowed not to steal, not to lie, not to engage in sexual misconduct, and not to consume alcohol or drugs. I'd also vowed not to kill.

Except for stealing, I'd broken every one of those vows by the following year. At least I never stole anything, I think wryly, biting back a harsh laugh.

"Hey, it's okay, we don't have to talk about it," he offers, taking my hand.

"No, no, it's all right. I'll be interested to see the ceremony—I think it'll be different from the ones I've seen before. And it's great that you're doing it—I'm really happy for you."

"Yeah, I think it'll be good." He looks at me. "You sign up for a consultation?"

Bill filled out a form for a 25 minute consultation with a dharma teacher as soon as the forms appeared on one of the conference tables. Didn't say anything, just picked it up and filled it out and dropped it off. I watched him do it and tried to get up the courage to do it myself.

"No, not yet," I say. Step. Breathe. "I will, though."

"If you want," he says, looking at me.

"No, no, I want to," I tell him. "It'll be good."

After our walk, before the next session begins, I pick up a couple forms—one for taking the five trainings, one for a consultation. I fold the one for the trainings up and put it in my pocket without really looking at it, then find a corner of the table to fill out the consultation form.

There are spaces for my name, my dharma discussion group, and what issue I'd like to discuss. I don't have a clue what to write. 'I killed two people, and I want to know if I can still be a Buddhist?' I stuff the form in my pocket and start to walk away, then turn back, scribble my name and dharma group, leaving the rest blank, and place it with the others. The basket is pretty full already, so maybe they won't even get to my name.

I don't say much during the dharma discussion, and the silence at dinner and afterwards is a blessing. I manage to avoid waking Bill when I, predictably, dream of Luke Ryland.

This time I fall asleep during morning meditation, but no one seems to notice except Bill, who urges me to go take a nap when we're walking out of the cafeteria after breakfast. I tell him I'm fine; he shakes his head but doesn't argue with me.

I see him later, coming out of the affinity groups, and I can tell he's excited about something. He smiles at me and then walks toward Steven, talks to him for a few minutes, then heading back towards me. He looks concerned and happy, excited and peaceful, all at the same time.

I ask him if he wants to go for a walk after lunch, but he shakes his head.

"Can't—I've got my consultation. Maybe after that, though—I could meet you around 2, how's that sound?"

"There's a dharma talk at 2."

"Oh, shit, that's right. Do we have time before dinner?"

"Yeah, probably," I tell him, although I was thinking about spending that time reading in our room. I guess I can do that now, instead.

"Cool. It's a date, then," he says, giving me a smile and a quick kiss on the cheek, and leaves for a meeting with on taking the five mindfulness trainings. I don't see him at lunch.

Today's dharma talk concerns compassion. My eyes burn as I listen to our teacher's soft, accented voice; once again I leave the dharma hall full of joy and peace.

I meet up with Bill, and without a word we head outside. We walk in silence for a few minutes before he opens his mouth.

"I went to that talk on taking the Five Mindfulness Trainings, and a group of us were talking after." he says, "There was this woman there, Helen, who'd taken refuge at a Tibetan retreat five or six years ago."

"Yeah?" I say, carefully non-committal, wondering if this is going where I think it is, and how I'll feel if it is.

"Yeah. She kinda stopped practicing for a few years after her daughter died. Then she moved to, uh, Denver, I think it was, and started going to an OI sangha there, kind of on a whim. She liked it, though. Figured out it suited her better than her Tibetan practice ever had."

I murmur something vaguely positive.

"So, uh, she asked about taking the five. Even though she'd kind of taken them before."

"What did Steven say?"

"He gave her a hug and told her it was no problem."

"That's nice."

"Yeah, I thought so."

We walk some more, not really needing to talk. We both know what the question is, and he's smart enough to let me take my time. Finally, after another ten or fifteen minutes, I ask it.

"You think I should?"

He looks at me, eyes full of kindness and love. "I think, if you wanted to, there's nothing stopping you. Except your own stubborn-ass self, that is."

I take another few steps. Breathe in, breathe out.

"I broke the precepts, Bill. I broke them all, except stealing, less than a year after I took them."

"I know. And you'll break them again." He holds up a hand to keep me quiet. "No, not like that, I know you're never doing that again, but, Tim—"

"How do you know that?"

"That you're never—"

"That I won't ever kill anyone again?"

"I guess I don't, when you come right down to it. Fuck, if someone threatened Billie, or Casey—"

"That's not the same—"

"No, it's not. I know it's not, Tim. And so do you."

Step. Breathe. Step. "Yeah. Yeah, I do." Step. "I'll think about it, okay?"

He nods. "Come on, let's head back. We don't want to miss another gourmet vegetarian buffet in a college dining hall."

I laugh. "No, we don't."

The next day, I see my name up on the board. My consultation's been scheduled for the following afternoon.

I sit, I breathe, I walk, I listen (while sitting) to dharma talks, I participate in dharma discussions. I sit some more. My back is killing me, and I'm sleeping like shit. But, despite my obsessive worrying over whether or not to take the five mindfulness trainings with Bill, I feel more at peace than I have in years. Every dharma talk feels like it's directed at me, and every meditation session brings me deeper into myself, deeper into practice. And it feels good. It feels great—when it's not scaring the shit out of me.

I fill out the form requesting a dharma name and saying I want to take the five that evening, although I'm far from sure what I'm going to do with it.

I make it through the rest of the day, and the next morning, and then it's after lunch. Bill gives me a brief hug, a kiss, and a look of exasperated love before practically pushing me towards the dharma hall.

The scrap of paper I have in my hand says that Ellie will meet me by the table where I signed up for an appointment. Sure enough, a minute after I step up to the bulletin board a thin, fifty-something woman with a shock of grey, curly hair comes up, peers at my name tag, and introduces herself. We head off into a corner and sit down on some folding chairs, and then she asks me what I'd like to talk about.

"I, uh, the thing is, I'm trying to decide whether to take the five mindfulness trainings," I stammer. I give her a shortened version of my Buddhist history, telling her about Roshi Felder and Larry Moss, leaving out Luke Ryland. I'm sure she can tell I'm not telling her everything, but it's only a twenty-five minute consultation, after all.

She doesn't tell me anything I don't already know, anything I haven't already heard from Bill, or from Michael. Of course I can take the trainings. Of course I can, and should, continue to practice. We all break the precepts every time we boil some vegetables, killing the microorganisms living on them—there is no way to live without breaking them. The trainings are guidelines, goals to work towards, not commandments handed down from above. She can tell from talking to me that my practice is strong, that I'm more than ready to take the trainings, but of course it's up to me.

I've heard everything she says numerous times before, but today—today I hear it. I _believe_ it. When she tells me I need to remember to live in the present moment, to forgive myself for the past and make the best effort I can to practice from now on, I _hear_ her, and something loosens in my chest.

When the time is up, she gives me a hug and says she hopes to see me the following morning. I nod and say I think she probably will. She smiles and gives me another hug.

I drop the form off on my way out the door, squinting at the bright sunshine and grabbing my sunglasses.

Bill's sitting on a bench outside. He stands up as soon as he sees me.

"How'd it go?"

"It was good," I answer, putting my arm around him. I take a deep breath, enjoying the warmth of the sun on my face. I smile. "I feel good."

He smiles.

———-

The ceremony's fairly similar to the one I went through before, although this time it's all in English. I catch glimpses of Bill off and on—he's a few rows ahead of me, bowing and chanting and bowing again, lean and graceful. Beautiful.

Listening to the formal recitation of the trainings, I'm aware again of how different they sound, how very different they feel. Before, the first time I took refuge, I recited short, declarative statements that began with "I vow." They were precepts. Rules. Commandments, really—strict ones, ones you weren't supposed to break, no matter what.

This version, these trainings, are different. Each one starts, "Aware of the suffering," and every time I hear it, I breathe in. Instead of a declarative vow to abstain from taking life, we have awareness of suffering, and a commitment to cultivating compassion and protecting lives.

I have been close to tears more than once at this retreat, feeling that my heart was breaking open. This time, instead of focusing on something external, I breathe in and allow myself to feel, to truly feel the gratitude and deep joy that's breaking through me. I try to surreptitiously swipe at the corner of my eye with my sleeve, but I don't try to stop the few tears that flow. And once the ceremony is over, and I can look around at my fellow practitioners, I can see that my nose and eyes aren't the only ones that are a little red.

They hand out certificates at the end, in alphabetical order, so I'm one of the first to receive my new dharma name. It's Compassionate Truth of the Heart. My heart skips a beat when I read it on the certificate, and another tear escapes as I bow gratefully to the monk who handed it to me.

Bill gets his certificate a few minutes later, then comes over to me, giving me a long hug. We exchange certificates so we can see each other's names, still held in Noble Silence, the only voices that of the monks and nuns calling people's names softly to give them their certificates. Bill's name is Compassionate Ease of the Heart. It suits him, I think, and I can tell by the set of his shoulders that he's pleased.

We walk to breakfast arm in arm, and we spend the rest of the day in close proximity, attending the same affinity group, the same dharma discussion, not saying much at either, content in silence and each other's company. We sit next to each other at evening meditation, and I feel as though I'm aware of every breath—not just mine, but his as well.

We leave the meditation hall in silence, as we have each night. Bill's behind me, so I open the door and head into the bathroom to brush my teeth. He comes in, we trade places, then I go back out to do some yoga, try to work some of the kinks out of my back.

When he comes out of the bathroom, he stands there a minute, watching me. After I move from downward dog to upward dog, he reaches out and gives my shoulder a squeeze, then nods towards the bed, making massaging motions with his hands. I smile, complete the pose, and then follow him over to the bed, pulling my t-shirt over my head and dropping it on the floor. He gestures again and I drop my shorts; he smiles appreciatively and pulls the covers back. I lie face down on the bed, and he gently pulls the sheet and blanket back up to my waist before grabbing some lotion and getting to work on my shoulders.

I don't know where Bill learned how to give such great massages—maybe he met a massage therapist during his brief attempt to date women. Maybe he read it in a book. I don't care how he learned; I'm just grateful he's so damned good at it. His hands, strengthened from years of guitar playing, work their way into each and every tight spot, easing the tension, soothing the muscles, working gently around the scars, until I'm melting into the mattress.

Eventually his hands leave my back, he pulls the covers back up to keep me from getting chilled, and I lie there, completely relaxed, listening to him put the lotion away and undress. He pulls the covers back just enough to get in beside me, resting his warm hand on the center of my back, but he doesn't turn off the light.

I slowly turn to face him. He's on his side, looking at me; I reach over and run my fingers over his eyebrow, his cheekbone, his lips. He smiles and moves his hand from my waist to my face, copying the movements across my face.

Neither one of us has said a word since before the evening meditation, and I don't want to break the silence now, so I just look at him and hope that he can read in my eyes what I want him to know—I love him. I love him so much that words are inadequate, so maybe it's for the best. I can see the same love reflected back to me, so I think he understands.

I bring my hand to the back of his neck, just a gentle pressure with my fingers, and he moves closer, his lips meeting mine, his arm now at my waist, pulling me towards him as we kiss. The kiss deepens as our bodies meet under the covers, and I throw my leg over his, turning onto my back and tugging him over on top of me. He rocks against my hip, already hard, and I am too, god, so hard, so in love with him, so deeply connected to this man, and even though this time we make love without any penetration, I know he's deeper inside me than anyone else ever has been or ever will be.

I'm aware of our rapid breathing, the sweat-slickness of our bodies, the silky heat of his erection as he thrusts against me, the slide of his tongue in my mouth, the sweet friction of his body against mine. I'm aware of the wet heat as he comes with a gasp and a shudder, the tension in my body as I strain up against him and then come myself, hands clenched on his shoulder and his ass, my mouth buried in his neck, his breath in my ear. I'm aware of our chests heaving, then slowing, the feel of his head resting next to mine, his hand in my hair, the taste of salt as I kiss his temple.

When I wake the following morning and watch him sleep, I am aware of the drool spot on his pillow, the bittersweet knowledge that the retreat is ending in a few hours, the warmth he radiates, the calm and ease he brings to my life, the immense love I feel for him. And, most of all, a deep joy and peace like I've never known.

_The Dharma body is bringing morning light.  
In concentration, my heart is at peace; a half-smile is born upon my lips.  
This is a new day, and I vow to go through it in mindfulness.  
The sun of wisdom has risen, shining in every direction._

_Namo Shakyamunaye Buddhaya  
Namo Shakyamunaye Buddhaya  
Namo Shakyamunaye Buddhaya_

—Morning Chant of the Order of Interbeing

 

END


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